The wedding-day, Thursday, rose bright and glorious; just the day that should shine on all happy bridals. Frances was given away by her father, and Gerard was attended by a former fellow-clerk in the Red Tape Office. Colonel Hope had settled an income upon his nephew; but Gerard was still in the house in Leadenhall Street, and was likely to remain there: for the colonel disapproved of idle young men. Gerard had taken a small and pretty house at Richmond, and would travel to the City of a morning.
At the wedding breakfast-table at Lord Acorn's, Grace and Sir Francis Netherleigh sat side by side. Towards its close, Grace took the opportunity of saying something to him in a whisper.
"We have been so confidential on many points for years, you and I, unhappily have had to be so," she began, "that I think I scarcely need make an apology, or ask your forgiveness, for a few words I wish to say to you now."
"Say on, Grace," was the cordial answer.
"It is about Adela." And then she briefly touched upon what her father and mother had heard from Mr. Cleveland the day before: of Adela's unhappy frame of mind, and her idea of entering a nursing institution, to become one of its sisterhood.
Sir Francis heard her to the end in silence. But he heard her apparently without interest: and somehow Grace's anxious spirit felt thrown back upon itself.
"It has troubled us all to hear this, my father especially," she said. "It would be so laborious a life, so very unsuited to one delicate as Adela."
"I can readily understand that you would not altogether like it," he replied, at length. "If money could be of any use——"
"Oh no, no," interrupted Grace, flushing painfully. "The allowance you have made from the first has been so wonderfully liberal. I don't know why I mentioned the subject to you—except that we think it is altogether undesirable for Adela."
"Lord and Lady Acorn must be the best judges of that," was the very indifferent answer.
"Her mind is in the most unhappy state conceivable; as it has been all along. For one thing," added Grace, her voice sinking to a yet lower key, "I think she is pining for your forgiveness."
"That is not at all likely, I fancy," coldly returned Sir Francis. And as he evinced no inclination to continue the subject, but rather the contrary, Grace said no more.
She could not have told herself why she introduced it. Had it been with any hope, consciously, or unconsciously, of being of service to Adela, it had signally failed. Evidently his wife and her concerns were topics that bore no longer any interest for Francis Netherleigh.
"Oh, Robert, what a lovely day!"
Standing at the open window of her own pretty sitting-room, a room that had been built and decorated for her during the late alterations to Moat Grange, was Mary Dalrymple. Robert, heated and flushed, had come swinging in at the gate, and caught the words across the lawn. He had been out since early morning, superintending various matters; for today was the grand fête-day at Moat Grange, and preparations were being made for it.
Robert called it a house-warming. He had talked of it, as a thing to come, ever since his marvellous return—and marvellous the world thought that return still: but he had waited for his marriage with Mary Lynn to take place, and then for the alterations to be completed that were to make the gloomy old house into a new one, and finally for the warm summer weather. For this was to be an open-air entertainment, for the gratification of the poor as well as the rich. Improvements had gone on without doors as well as within. Those cottages by the old mill had been rebuilt, and their humble tenants were reinstated. Gratitude and contentment had taken the place of rebellion, and the once angry men thought they could never do enough for their young Squire, Robert Dalrymple.
"What a lovely day!" repeated Mary.
It was the first day of June, and one of the sweetest days that charming month ever put forth. Excepting for a light fleecy cloud here and there, the sky was of a deep blue; the sun flickered through the trees, that yet wore somewhat of their tender green, and caught Robert's head as he stood looking up at his wife.
"Ay, it is," said Robert, in reply to her remark, "very lovely. But it will be uncommonly hot, Mary; it is so already."
She leaned from the window in her cool white morning gown, smiling at her husband. How good-looking they both were—and how happy! Every now and then, even yet, Mary could scarcely realize the change—the intense happiness which had succeeded to the years of what had appeared irredeemable sorrow.
"And now, Robert," said Mary, "I think you must want breakfast—if you have not had it."
"But I have had it. I ran in to my mother's, and took some with her and Alice. The tents are all up, Mary, and the people are getting into their Sunday best."
"So soon! Don't forget, if you please, sir, that we sit down to lunch today at one o'clock precisely. We can't do without you then, you know, though we did without you at breakfast."
Robert drew a little nearer to the window. "Where are they all?" he asked.
"Gone for a stroll. I told them that I had a famished husband coming in and must wait at home for him. I think Gerard and his wife have only gone to your mother's. I don't know about Oscar and Selina. Perhaps she is gone to see the new baby at the Rectory."
"Selina does not care for babies."
"But she cares for gossip. And Lady Mary is well enough for any amount of that."
"What is that letter in your hand?" asked Robert.
His wife's face changed to sadness. "It contains bad news, Robert; and though I have been chattering to you so gaily and lightly, it is lying on my heart. Francis cannot come."
"No!"
"Some dreadful measure—important, he calls it—has to be debated upon in committee in the House this afternoon, and Francis has to stay for it."
"Well, I am disappointed," cried Robert.
"As we all are. Robert, I do think it is too bad. I do think Francis might have spared this one day to us," added Mary, with a sigh. "He seems to regard politics as quite a recreation."
"Don't be hard on him, Mary. He has little else now in the way of recreation."
Gerard Hope and Lady Frances had come to the Grange for the fête: Gerard having coaxed a three days' holiday out of Mr. Howard, with whom he was a favourite, though the old gentleman had grumblingly reminded him that his honeymoon was not long over. Oscar Dalrymple and Selina had also arrived the previous night from their own place, Knutford. Perhaps in his heart Oscar had not been sorry to give up the Grange and its troubles. At any rate, he made no sign of regret. Peace and plenty had supervened on discomfort, and he and Selina were friends with all.
Mary had guessed rightly: Selina had gone to the Rectory. If not to see the new baby, to see the baby's mother. The baby was more than two weeks old, and Lady Mary was seated on a sofa, doing some useful work.
"It is early days for that, is it not?" cried Selina, as she went in.
"Not at all," laughed Lady Mary. "With all my little ones, I have to be always at work. And I am thankful to be well enough for it. You reached the Grange yesterday?"
"Yes—and found all well. Mamma came up to dinner last night. She is quite young and active. Gerard and Frances have gone to see Alice, who is much better—and then Frances is coming here to see you. Every one seems to be better," concluded Selina.—"And what delightful weather we have for today!"
"Where is your husband?"
"Oscar! He went across the fields to the Mead House to see old Bridport. What a pity you cannot come out today, Mary! And who else do you think cannot come out? At least, not outhere."
"Who is that?"
"Francis Netherleigh. Mary Dalrymple heard from him this morning. He is kept in London by some business connected with the House. He would have been the star of the fête. Yes, don't laugh at me—hewould— and we are all vexed. I wouldn't be in that House of Commons for the world," resentfully concluded Selina. "I do think he might have stretched a point today!"
"Y-e-s—if he wished to come," was: the doubting assent. "The question is—did he wish it?"
"What do you mean?" asked Selina.
Mary Cleveland dropped her needle and looked at Mrs. Oscar Dalrymple. "It has struck me that he has not cared to come here, you know. Instead of taking up his abode at Court Netherleigh, he pays only a flying visit to it now and then. My husband and I both think that he does not choose to subject himself to the chance of meeting Adela."
"I should not wonder. They were talking about Adela at the Grange last night," resumed Selina, in accents of hesitation—"saying something about her joining a sisterhood of nurses. But I'm surethatcan't be true."
"It is quite true, Selina."
Selina opened her amazed eyes. "True! Why, she would have to put her hair under a huge cap, and wear straight-down cotton gowns and white aprons!"
Lady Mary smiled.Thatpart of the programme would assuredly have kept Selina from entering on anything of the sort.
"Yes; it is true," repeated Mary. "The negotiations have been pending for some time; but it is decided at last, and Adela departs for Yorkshire on Saturday, the day after tomorrow, to shut herself into the institution."
"And will she never come out again?"
Lady Mary shook her head. "We cannot foresee the future, Selina. All we know is, that Adela is most unfitted for the kind of work, and we shall be surprised if she does not break down under it. Her frame is slight and delicate, her instincts are sensitive and refined. Fancy Adela dressing broken heads, or sitting up for a week with a family of children ill with fever!"
Selina put her hands before her eyes. "Oh!" she cried in horror. "But she surely won't have to do all that?"
"She will. She must take any case she is appointed to."
Lady Mary took up her work again, and Selina, serious and sobered for once in her life, sat revolving what she had heard.
"Surely she will not do this, Mary!"
"Indeed she will. She is fully determined to enter upon it, and she intends that it shall be for life. Her father came down here to remonstrate with her: he has always had more influence over her than any one else: but it availed nothing. They were together for an hour in Adela's sitting-room here—and I could see how distressing to her the interview had been. Her eyes were swollen with crying."
"Well, I can't understand it," concluded Selina, rising. "Had it been a question of necessity, there might be reason in her wanting to make a guy of herself, but it is not so. Those big linen caps are dreadful."
The door of the red parlour was open as Selina gained the hall. Adela sat there sewing: and Selina went in. How fragile and dainty and delicate she looked, this still young and lovely woman, in her simple muslin dress, with a ribbon at her throat and an edging of lace at the wrists. Selina sat down.
"At work today, Adela!"
"I am making frocks for that poor Widow Jeffrey's children. But for Mr. Cleveland I don't know what they would do, now their father is gone."
"But all Netherleigh is en fête today So ought you to be!"
Adela raised her sad and beautiful eyes to Selina's in some surprise. "The fête can have nothing to do with me, Selina. I am very glad it is so fine for it: and I hope every one will enjoy it, yourself included."
"Thank you: I'm sure I shall. Adela, what is this we hear about you?" broke forth Selina, unable to keep silence longer. "You are going to shut yourself up in a grim building, and wear a most disfiguring costume, and nurse cases of fever!"
"Yes," sighed Adela.
"But you surely never will?"
"I must do it. I leave for it the day after tomorrow."
Selina lowered her voice. "Have you sat down andcounted the cost?"
"Over and over again. It will be less painful than what I have long been enduring: bodily discomfort is more tolerable than remorse. I shall live a useful life, at any rate, Selina. For a long while now it has been worse than a wasted one."
"They think—Mary does at least—that you will not be strong enough to stand the fatigue."
"I must do my best," sighed Adela. "I hope the strength—in all ways—will come with the need."
"I dare say they give nothing but suet puddings for dinner four days out of the seven!"
Adela faintly smiled. "I don't expect to find luxuries, Selina."
"Do you take Darvy?"
"Darvy!" echoed Lady Adela. "No, indeed. I shall be, so to say, a servant myself."
Selina, in very dismay, gave her hands a slight wring. To her, it seemed that Adela might as well put herself at once out of the world.
"I must be going," she said, advancing to say farewell. "You are sure you will not come to the fête, Adela?"
"I have done with fêtes for ever," replied Adela, as she drew down Selina's face for a farewell kiss. "Perhaps you will write to me sometimes?" And Selina Dalrymple, sick and sorry for the blighted life, went out with her eyes full of tears.
The day wore on to the afternoon, and the business of the fête began. Old and young, gentle and simple, the aristocracy surrounding the neighbourhood, the tenant-farmers and the labourers, all congregated on the lawns, in the gardens, and in the home field, where the tents were placed. Of the attendants, Reuben was chief, his fresh face happy again as of yore.
Amidst games, dancing, and various other entertainments, there was a fancy-fair, the proceeds of it to be distributed to the poor: though indeed it was more for fun than gain, fortune-telling, post-offices, and mock auctions prevailing.
Alice Dalrymple had a corner in this tent for her reclining chair, and watched with pleasure the busy scene. Lady Frances Hope stood by her; her husband was flitting from stall to stall. Robert's coming back had worked wonders for Alice.
"There!" said Gerard, coming up to her, his face gay as usual, his tone light, as he handed a charming bouquet to Alice: "a fine squabble I have had to get you this. Ten shillings those keepers of the flower-stall wanted, if you'll believe me I gave them five, and told them they were harpies."
"You should not have bought it for me," smiled Alice, gratefully inhaling at the same time the scent of the flowers. "You are just what you always were, Gerard—thinking of every one else, never of self."
"Why should I think of self?" returned Gerard, his wife having left them for a distant stall. "But you know you always liked to lecture me, Alice."
"For your good," she answered, raising her eyes to his.
"Was it for my good? Ah, Alice," he added, his tone changing to one of regret, "if you had only taken me into your hands, as you might have done—as I prayed you to do—you would have made a Solomon of me for wisdom——"
"Hush, Gerard. Best as it is," she impressively whispered, gently laying her hand upon his. "I was not fit—in any way. As it is, I have you both to love, and I am supremely happy. And I think you are."
"Ah, well," quaintly conceded Gerard, "one is warned not to expect perfect bliss in this sublunary world, so one can only make the best of what fate and fortune bestow upon us. Would you not like to walk round and look at the stalls, Alice? You can go comfortably, I think, on my arm."
"Thank you; yes, I should like it—if you will take me."
Amidst the few people of note not at the fête was Lady Adela. She had kept to her determination not to go near it. Mr. Cleveland had asked her, when setting out himself, whether she would not go with him just to have a peep at it, but she said she preferred to sit with Mary. She had heard the news, spoken openly by the Rector at the luncheon-table, that Sir Francis Netherleigh was not coming to it. And in Lady Mary's room she sat, pursuing her work.
But as the afternoon advanced, and its hours struck, one after the other, Adela grew weary and restless, needing a little fresh air. She put on her garden-hat and went out: not with any view of going near the gaiety, rather of keeping securely away from it. And little fear was there of her encountering any stragglers, for the feasting was just beginning, and no Englishman voluntarily walks away from that.
These later hours of the day, as the earlier ones had been, were warm and beautiful. Adela walked gently along, until she came to Court Netherleigh. A sudden impulse prompted her to enter the grounds. She had never yet done so during these months of sojourn, had always driven back the almost irrepressible yearning. Surely there would be no harm in entering now: she did want to see the place once more before quitting Netherleigh and civilized life for ever. No one would see her. She was perfectly secure from interruption by Sir Francis—and from all other people besides, the world and his wife having gone a-gadding.
Not by the lodge-gates and the avenue did she enter; but by a little gate, higher up the road, that she had gone in and out of so often in the time of Aunt Margery. Drawing near to the house, she sat down under a group of trees in view of the favourite apartment that used to be called Miss Margery's parlour, the glass-doors of which were standing open. Cool and gentle she looked as she sat there; she wore the same simple muslin gown that she had worn in the morning. Unfastening the strings of her straw hat, she pushed it somewhat back from her delicate face, and sat on, thinking of the past.
Of the past generally and of her own particular part in it—when was it absent from her memory? Of the means of happiness that had been bestowed upon her in a degree Heaven seldom vouchsafes to mortal woman, and of her terrible ingratitude. How different all would have been now had she only been what she might have been!
Not only had she wrecked her own life, but also her husband's. The bitter requital she had dealt out to him day after day and year after year in return for all the loving care he lavished on her, was very present to her now. For a long while past she had pined for his forgiveness—just to hear him speak it; she coveted it more than ever now that she was about to put all chance of hearing it beyond possibility. God's pardon she hoped she was obtaining, for she prayed for it night and day—but she yearned for her husband's.
It was close upon two years since he put her away from him and from her home. It would be two years next Christmas since Miss Margery died. All that time to have been feeding the bitter grief that played upon her heart-strings!—to have been doing perpetual battle with her remorse!
Lost in these regrets, Adela sat on, taking no heed of the time, when a movement caught her eye. Some one, who appeared to have come in by the same little gate, was striding towards the house. With a faint exclamation of dismay, Adela drew back within the trees. For it was her husband.
Of all the world that could intrude, she had deemed herself most secure fromhim: knowing that he was detained in London, and could not be down. How was it, ran her tumultuous thoughts. She supposed—what was indeed the truth—that he had at the last found himself able to come.
Yes, but only for an hour or two. She did not know that he had got down at midday, had been to the fête, and was now on his way back to the train, calling at home on his road. He made straight for the open doors of Miss Margery's room, and went in.
A strange impulse seized upon Adela. What if she dared speak to him now? to sue for the forgiveness for which her heart seemed breaking? He could not kill her for it: and perhaps he might speak it—and she should carry with her to her isolation so much of peace.
Without pausing to weigh the words she should utter, or the consequences of her act, she glided after him into the room. Sir Francis stood at a table, his back to the window, apparently taking some papers out of his pocketbook. The sudden darkening of the light, for she made no noise, must have caused him to turn: and there they stood face to face, each gazing, if they so minded, at the ravages time had made in the other. She was the more changed. Her once-brilliant eyes were sad and gentle, her cheeks bore the hectic of emotion, all the haughtiness had gone out of her sweet face for ever. And he? He was noble as always, but his hair had grey threads in it, and his forehead was lined.
"May I be allowed to speak to you for a moment?" she panted, breaking the silence, yet hardly able to articulate "I—I——" And then she broke down from sheer inability to draw breath.
He stood quite still by the table, as if waiting, his tall form drawn to its full height, his face and bearing perfectly calm. But he made no answer.
"I beg your pardon," she humbly began again, having halted just inside the window. "I would not have presumed to follow you in, or to speak to you, but that it is the last opportunity we shall have of meeting on earth. I go away the day after tomorrow to seclude myself from the world; and I—I cannot go without your forgiveness. When I saw you come in now, not knowing even that you were at Netherleigh—an impulse I could not resist brought me after you to ask you to forgive me. Just to ask it!"
But still Sir Francis did not answer. Poor Adela, now white, now hectic, went on, in her weak and imploring tone.
"It has seemed to me that if I went away for good without your forgiveness, I should almost die as the days went on—knowing that I could never ask it then. If you could believe how truly, how bitterly I have repented, perhaps you would not in pity withhold it from me. Will you not give it me? Will you not hear me?" she added, lifting her trembling hands, as he yet made no sign. "God forgives: will not you forgive also?"
Advancing, she sank on her knees before him, as he stood; her sad face lifted to his in yearning. He drew a step back: he had listened in impassive silence; but he spoke now.
"Rise, rise, Lady Adela. Do not kneel to me."
She bent forward; she laid her poor weak hands upon him; the scalding tears began to stream down her face, so pitiful in its sad entreaty. Sir Francis gently touched her hands with his, essaying to raise her; a cold, distant touch, evidently not of goodwill.
"Lady Adela, I will not say another word, or allow you to say one, until you rise. You must be aware that you are only vexing me."
She rose to her feet obediently. She stood still, apart from him. He drew back yet, and stood still also, his arms folded.
"Tell me what it is you wish. I scarcely understand."
"Only your forgiveness, your pardon for the past. It will be a comfort to carry it with me where I am going."
"Where is it that you are going?"
"I am going to join some ladies in Yorkshire, who pass their time in nursing the poor and sick," she answered. "It is called a Sisterhood. I have been thinking that perhaps in that retirement, and in the occupation it will entail, I may find peace. Once entered, I feel sure I shall never have courage to leave it: therefore I know that we shall not meet again."
He did not speak.
"And I should like to thank you, if I may dare, for all your consideration, your generous loving-kindness. Believe me, that, in the midst of the humiliation of accepting it, I have been grateful. When once I have entered this refuge, the necessity for your bounty will cease. Thank you deeply for all."
"You are tired of the world?"
"Yes. It has been to me so full of shame and misery."
"Do you know that you brought a great deal of misery uponme?"
"Oh, it is the consciousness ofthatthat is killing me. If I could undo it with my life, I would; and be thankful. The recollection of the past, the cruel remorse ever haunting my conscience, has well-nigh crushed me. I want you to say that you will try to be happy in your life; there will be less impediment, perhaps, now that I shall be far away: I shall be to you as one dead. If I could only know that you were happy! that I have not quite blighted your life, as I have my own!"
"Do you like the idea of entering this retreat?"
"As well as I could like anything that can be open to me in this world now. It will be a refuge; and I dare to hope—I have dared topray—that I may in time gain peace."
"Could the past come over again, you would, then, be a different wife to me?"
"Don't reproach me," she sobbed. "None can know how cruel my fate is, how bitter my repentance. Will you not be merciful?—will you not say that you forgive me before I go away for ever?"
"Yes, Adela, I will say it," he answered then. "I forgive you from my heart. I will say more. If you do wish to atone for the past, to be my true and loving wife, these arms are open to you."
He opened them as he spoke. She staggered back, unable to comprehend or believe. He did not move: simply stood still where he was, his extended arms inviting her.
"Do not mock me, pray," she feebly wailed. "Do not be cruel: you were never that. I have told you how bitterly I repent—that my remorse is greater than I can bear. If my life could undo the past, could atone to you in the least degree, I would gladly lay it down."
"Adela, I am not mocking you. You cannot surely think it, knowing me as you do. You may come back to me, if you will, and be once more my dear wife. My arms are waiting for you; my heart is waiting for you: it shall be as you will."
Panting, breathless, the hectic coming and going on her wasted cheeks, she slowly, doubtfully advanced; and when near him she halted and fell at his feet. His own breath was shortening, emotion nearly overcame him. Raising her, he enfolded her to his loving heart.
For a little while, as she lay in his arms, their tears mingled together; ay, even his were falling. A moment of agitation, such as this, does not often visit a man during his lifetime.
"There must be no mistake in future, Adela? You will be to me a loving wife?"
Once more, in deep humiliation, she bent before him. "Your loving and faithful wife for ever and for ever."
Quietly enough they walked, side by side, through the park. Who, watching them, could have suspected the agitation just lived through, the momentous change that had taken place in their lives? Sir Francis went on his way to the railway-station, for he had to go back to London. Adela returned to the Rectory.
And that night, in the solitude of her chamber, its window open to the stars of the summer sky, she spent hours on her knees in prayer and thanksgiving.
On the following morning Mr. Cleveland took Adela to Chenevix House. Sir Francis had been there to prepare the way for her. It was great news for the earl and countess; but it had not much diminished my lady's tartness. She had been too angry with Adela to come round at once.
"Do you know where you are going this evening, Adela?" Grace asked her in a whisper, a happy light in her eyes.
"No. Where?"
"Francis Netherleigh has some mission that is taking him to Paris—my belief is, he has improvised it. He starts tonight, and he will take you with him—if you are very good."
"How kind he is!" murmured Adela.
"Have a care how you behave in future, Adela," said her father, in solemn admonition that evening, as Sir Francis stood ready to take her out to his carriage, which waited to convey them to the station.
"I will, papa: Heaven helping me. Good-bye, dear mamma."
"Oh, good-bye, and a pleasant journey to you! It's more than you deserve," retorted my lady.
There is little more to relate.
On just such a lovely June day as described above, and twelve months later, another fête took place. But this time it was at Court Netherleigh. Not an open-air fête, this, or one on a large scale, for only a few chosen friends had been invited to it.
In the morning, in Netherleigh Church, and at the hands of the good Rector, the infant heir of Court Netherleigh had been made one of Christ's fold.
Court Netherleigh was made their chief home by Sir Francis and his wife. Grosvenor Square was visited occasionally, but not for very long together. Adela's tastes had totally changed: fashion and frivolity no longer held chief places in her heart: higher aims and duties had superseded them. Lady Mary Cleveland herself was not so actively anxious for the welfare of the poor and distressed as was Adela, Netherleigh.
"Sweet are the uses of adversity,Which like a toad, ugly and venomous,Wears yet a precious jewel in its head."
"Sweet are the uses of adversity,Which like a toad, ugly and venomous,Wears yet a precious jewel in its head."
As she stood this morning at the baptismal font, her child in the arms of Mr. Cleveland, tears of joy silently trickled down her face. Hardly a day or a night of this latter twelvemonth, but they had risen in gratitude, contrasting what had been with what was.
Lord and Lady Acorn were present; and Grace, who was godmother, held the baby in readiness for the clergyman. Mr. Howard had come down with Colonel and Lady Sarah Hope; Robert Dalrymple and Mary were there from Moat Grange, and the Rector's wife.
While walking back to Court Netherleigh after the ceremony, the party were joined by another guest—Sir Turtle Kite.
Sir Turtle's presence was quite unexpected. Deeply sensible of the service he once rendered them—for, had the little alderman chosen to be crusty then, where would Charles Cleveland have been, where Lady Adela?—the Acorn family had not dropped him with the passing moment. Neither had Sir Francis Netherleigh. On this particular day—a very splendid one in London—the knight chanced to think he should like to air himself in the sunbeams, and take a holiday. Remembering the standing invitation to Court Netherleigh—of which he had not yet availed himself—and knowing that Sir Francis was staying there and not in Grosvenor Square, Sir Turtle travelled down, and met the party as they were going home from church.
"Dear me I am very sorry," he cried, somewhat disconcerted. "I had no idea—I had better go home again."
"Not a bit of it," said Sir Francis, heartily, as he clasped his hand. "You are all the more welcome. I am sure you will like to join us in good wishes to my little boy. Adela will show him to you."
So Sir Turtle's beaming face made one at the luncheon-table, none so delighted as he. And he surreptitiously scribbled a note in his pocketbook to purchase the handsomest christening-cup that could be found for money.
Luncheon over, they went out into the charming sunshine, some strolling hither and thither, some taking refuge on the shaded benches under the trees. Adela gained possession of her baby in the nursery, and carried him out to show him to Sir Turtle. He was a fine little fellow of six weeks old, promising to be as noble-looking as his father, and certainly possessing his beautiful grey-blue eyes.
"What is its name?" asked Sir Turtle, venturing to pat the soft little cheek with his forefinger, and rather at a loss what to say, for he did not understand as much about babies as he did about tallow.
"Francis," answered Adela. "Francis Upton. I would not have had any name but Francis for the world, and my husband thought he would like to add Upton, in remembrance of Miss Upton who used to live here."
"Francis is a very nice name; better than mine," observed Sir Turtle, sitting down by Adela. "And who are its godfathers?" he resumed, still at sea as to the proper things to be said of a baby.
"My father is one, Mr. Howard the other. Sir Francis fixed upon papa, and I upon Mr. Howard. Formerly I used not to like Mr. Howard," ingenuously added Lady Adela, "but I have learnt his worth."
"Ay, a worthy man, my lady; first-rate in business. Talking of business," broke off the little alderman, glad, no doubt, to leave the subject of the baby, but none the less inopportunely, "do you chance to know what has become of a young fellow who got into some trouble at Grubb and Howard's—the Rector's son, yonder"—nodding towards Mr. Cleveland—"Charles, I think, his name was. I have often wished to ask about him."
Lady Adela bent over her child, as if to do something to its cap: her face had flushed blood-red.
"Charles Cleveland is in India," she said. "He is doing well, very well. My husband was—was very kind to him, and pushes him forward. He is kind to every one."
Rising rather abruptly from the bench, she gave the baby to the nurse and went into the house. Her mother, standing at one of the windows of the large drawing-room, turned round as she entered.
"What have you been doing to flush your face so, Adela?" called out my lady—for it was glowing still.
"Oh, nothing: the sun perhaps," answered Adela, carelessly.
"You were talking with Sir Turtle Kite."
"Yes, he was looking at baby, and asking me his name. I told him his father's—Francis."
"Ah," said Lady Acorn, with her irrepressible propensity for bringing up disagreeable reminiscences, "I remember the time when you would not have your child's name Francis, because it was your husband's."
"Oh, mamma, don't! That was in the mistaken years of long ago."
"And I hope you were civil to Sir Turtle," continued my lady: "you seemed to leave him very abruptly. He is a funny little round-headed man, and nothing but an alderman; but he means well. Think whatyourfate might have been now—but for his—his clemency."
"If you wouldpleasenot recall these things, mother!" besought Adela, meekly, tears starting to her eyes. "Especially today, when we are all so happy."
Somehow the past, with all its terrible mistakes and the misery they had entailed, came rushing upon her mind so vividly that she could not control her emotion. Passing into the next room, and not perceiving her husband, her sobs broke forth. He came forward.
"My love, what is it?"
"Only——"
"Nay, tell me."
"Something mamma said made me think of that cruel time when—when I was so wrong and wicked. Francis, the shame and sin seemed all to come back again."
He held her before him; his tone one of tender reproof. "But the shame and sin never can come back, Adela. My wife, you know it."
"I know how good you are. And I know how merciful to me God has been," she replied, glancing at him through her wet lashes, with eyes full of love and devotion.
"Very merciful: very merciful to me and to you," whispered Francis Netherleigh. "Do you know, my darling, that through all that dark time, I never lost my trust in Him."