The Duchess-Complex

ILLUSTRATED BY HENRY COLLER

OSINANTE? What a name for a high-powered torpedo flyer! Such, however, had been the choice of the young owner, Hilda Tiddlewin.

Just now, on this beautiful spring day, and on a stretch of road cutting through an exquisite part of southern England, Rosinante was living up to her singular cognomen, for in front of her moved a flock of sheep, and, beyond the sheep, a bellowing mass of what country folk call "beasts."

"If I'd known that Wednesday was market-day in this part of the world, Molly, we would have stayed on at Greysands till to-morrow!"

Hilda Tiddlewin, the girl at the wheel, turned to the cousin who played in her not altogether happy life the part of a really loving sister.

"I rather like going slowly, for a change."

"You're a little coward, Moll!"

Molly humbly told herself that this was true. She had a nervous horror of motoring fast—that is too fast.

"When we go at fifty miles an hour we can't see anything of the country. Look how beautiful that old castle looks against the skyline?"

"That's Settleham Castle. It belongs to the Duke of St. Andrews, one of the few dukes"—there came a bitter, scornful note in Hilda Tiddlewin's deep voice. "Uncle Joe has never been able to 'corner,' as he would put it. He thinks he has got most of the others in his pocket. After all, the only thing people of that sort care for, nowadays, is money, money, money! Even the young men think of nothing else."

"That isn't always true," said Molly mildly.

The other turned on her. "D'you know how many offers I've had since Christmas?" she asked in a tragic tone.

Molly laughed aloud. "Well, yes, I think I do. But some of them you couldn't really regard as offers. They were only what I should call 'feelers'—you scared the poor things off before they could finish what they had to say."

"Uncle Joe hopes I'm waiting for a duke!"

Molly laughed again. "I think Uncle Joe would die of joy if you became a duchess," she exclaimed.

"I shouldn't mind becoming a princess, but a duchess—never!" cried Hilda.

"That duchess-complex of yours is rather absurd, darling, so hard on a nice duchess—"

"What nice duchess would want to have anything to do with me?" asked the girl bitterly. "Look at that!"

Molly looked quickly to their left, and then she gave a little gasp of surprise.

In a large field edging the road were erected a number of Brobdingnagian easels. Each easel was painted bright red, and stencilled across it in white letters of enormous size were the words:

"That's Uncle Joe's revenge on the Duke of St. Andrews. Isn't it foul? Don't you remember his telling us about it?"

"He didn't tell me," said Molly.

"It must have been when you were staying with those awful Birtleys, for he talked of nothing else for days. All the other dukes allowed him to put up one of his easels in exchange for a big sum to some pet charity of theirs. But this duke not only refused, but forbade any of his tenants to allow Tiddlewin Sugar to be advertised on their land. Uncle Joe called that mediaeval tyranny, and this is how he's tried to pay him off!"

"People say the Duchess of St. Andrews is such a dear," observed Molly.

She felt even more disgusted than was Hilda, at what—apart from what one could almost call an insult—was such a blot on the lovely landscape. Though Molly would not have used the word foul, for she had been brought up in a refined, old-fashioned home, and not at a fashionable girls' school, as had Hilda, who went on bitterly, "I'm not very old, yet there's hardly anything about the ugly side of human nature that I don't know; and I could give a novelist points as to the way fortune-hunters propose."

Her lips were set, her eyes hard. "You're just as attractive as I am—you ought to be more attractive, Molly, to the average man. You're so kind, and you have such nice manners. But do they give you one thought when I am by? Of course they don't! They know a trick worth two of that"

The other girl remained silent. All truths, as the French so wisely put it, are not good to tell. It might be strange, but it was certainly true, that Molly Tiddlewin, though in a quiet way, an attractive girl, passed almost unnoticed in the shoddy, pleasure-loving, money-hunting section of society which was all that the enormously wealthy sugar king, Sir Joseph Tiddlewin, seemed able to procure for his adopted daughter.

In that sharp, acquisitive world, everyone knew that Hilda was his heiress, and Molly little more than Hilda's companion.

They came to a cross-road, and the girl skilfully steered Rosinante down a narrow lane to their left. "At last we shall be able to get along!" she exclaimed, and she began to put on speed.

Involuntarily Molly cried out, "Be careful, Hilda! We can't see a bit ahead"

"There's nothing ahead," answered the other confidently; "we'll soon be in the main road again."

And then, just as she said the word "again," the lane took a sharp bend; a level-crossing with the gates shut seemed to be moving rapidly towards them; there rose on the air a shout of warning; Molly Tiddlewin shut her eyes tightly; and Hilda jammed on the brakes.

But she was too late, and a flashing moment later the car lay on its side, by the partially smashed gate, a jumbled mass of bent, broken, and twisted scrap-iron.

The last thing Molly Tiddlewin saw, before she was flung, mercifully for herself, clear from the wreck, was a young man standing up in a motor on the other side of the line, who, suddenly aware of their danger, was shouting and frantically waving his arms.

A moment later, Lord Ardvilly, the eldest son of the Duke of St. Andrews, vaulted over the closed gate and rushed across the railway line, being joined, a moment later, by two old men who had been seen working in a field close by. One of the two girls lay quite still, close to what remained of the car, and the young man, bending over her, believed her to be dead.

As for the reckless driver of the car, who, because she had round her neck a bright red silk scarf, could be easily identified, she seemed to have disappeared.

With a feeling of sick horror Lord Ardvilly, asked himself if she was lying crushed under the mass of twisted machinery. Then, all at once, he heard a distant moaning, and he saw that she had been flung at what seemed an incredible distance from the wrecked car. He hurried towards the stretch of hard road where she lay, and as he came close up to her, she tried to raise herself on her left elbow.

"What happened?" she called out weakly. "Where's my cousin? If she's under the car, for Heaven's sake get someone as quickly as you can—never mind about me!"

"She's not under the car," he said quickly. "But I'm afraid her head must have struck against the gate."

"Is she dead? Then I've killed her."

She looked up at him with imploring eyes, and in answer to that look of agony, he instinctively softened his answer. "It may be only concussion," he said quickly.

Then he knelt down by her. "I'm afraid you're horribly hurt—you were flung such a long way"

"I think I've put out my right arm. But never mind about that! Do get a doctor here as quick as you can—I mean for her. There's nothing really the matter with me."

She tried to move, and he saw her face pucker up with the pain that even so slight a movement caused her. She soon gave up the attempt and let herself fall back, heavily, on the ground.

"It was all my fault! I've been a selfish brute! I'm always a selfish brute!" she cried hysterically. "Molly's so good, so unselfish; she never thought of herself. Oh, why did I make her motor back with me to-day? She didn't really want to come. She would far rather have gone back to London by train."

Lord Ardvilly rose to his feet and looked down at the prone figure with a mixture of pity and slight repugnance. He was an old-fashioned, quiet, young man, and Hilda Tiddlewin's unrestrained emotion repelled him.

"Why do you go on standing there?" she asked angrily. It was almost as if she could see into his mind. "Please go and fetch a doctor"

"We should get at a doctor very much sooner if you could manage to get into my car."

"Will you take my cousin too?"

"Of course I will."

"Very well," she said ungraciously. "Then do as you think best."

As he hurried back to the scene of the accident one of the men called out, "Nothin's much wrong with this 'ere one. She's opened 'er eyes."

The young man turned on his heel. "Your cousin has regained consciousness; she's not as hurt as I feared she was!" he called out breathlessly.

While the two men were lifting, first Molly, then Hilda, into the car, the car's owner came unwillingly to admire the girl whose recklessness had brought about the tragedy. She was so very brave, and he could not help being touched at her still great distress concerning her cousin, and that though it was obvious that she herself was in great pain.

As they approached the little town which lay at the foot of the Castle Hill, "Is it far to the doctor's house?" she asked in a low voice.

"I'm not proposing to take you to the doctor's house. I'm absolutely certain he wouldn't be at home now, and the Cottage hospital is ever so far on the other side of the town; so I hope you won't mind my taking you straight to my own home?"

"Shan't we be giving you a great deal of trouble?" The words came with difficulty from her pale lips.

"No trouble at all," he said hastily. "We've a good trained nurse there, who brought us all up. She's awfully clever, and she'll make you both as comfortable as anyone can make you, while we run the doctor to earth."

"Is yours a big house?" she asked weakly.

"Huge!" He laughed for the first time since the accident. "In fact, a lot of it is now shut up. So you see there is plenty of room for you and your cousin."

She gave a quivering sigh. "Is it right in the town!"

She was so afraid that she would faint before they reached this quiet young man's home.

"It's there!"

With his free hand he pointed to the grey mass of buildings, old and new, reared up against the blue sky.

"You don't mean that you're taking us to Settleham Castle?"

"Yes, of course I do." Then a little awkwardly he explained, "My name's Ardvilly."

"We can't go there. It's quite impossible. I think you'll understand why when I tell you who we are"

He looked round at her with astonishment painted on his plain, good-humoured face.

She waited a moment, then said defiantly: "Our name is Tiddlewin. We are the adopted daughters of Sir Joseph Tiddlewin"

"Tiddlewin?" he repeated.

"Yes, the man who put up those awful easels in a field which we passed just before we turned into the lane leading to the level-crossing."

"How stupid of me!" he exclaimed. "Of course I've heard of Sir Joseph Tiddlewin."

Though he was quite determined there should be no change in his voice, it became, as it were, one degree less warm than it had been. Still, "Why should that prevent your coming to the Castle?" he asked.

He turned and smiled at her, while all the warmth in his young voice came back. "The first time that my brother Algy and I saw those advertisements we laughed so much that we nearly made ourselves ill! You see, my father is not a bit sweet, and he never takes sugar."

She shook her head. It was almost the only movement she could make without pain. "Please, please, Lord Ardvilly, do believe that I am quite serious. I beg you to take us straight to the cottage hospital, or anywhere else you can think of, but not to the Castle."

"Look here!" He turned squarely round, and looked into her pale face. "I only want you to stay at the Castle just long enough to see the doctor. He's always out at this time of the morning. But my mother—well, I suppose that like all mothers she's rather a fuss-pot where we're concerned, so she always wants to know where she can get at the doctor. So you see, Miss Tiddlewin, if not for your own sake, then for the sake of your poor cousin, please do what I wish. But if you really feel like—like that, I'll undertake that no one will know your name."

"I should so hate the Duke and Duchess to know who we are," said Hilda painfully.

"They won't know," he said confidently. "I can be as good a liar on occasion as anybody! Besides, mother's not a bit inquisitive."

Hilda Tiddlewin and Molly were, all unknowingly, moving so fast towards their great adventure, the Duke of whom Hilda had just spoken with a grudging mixture of contempt and admiration was standing in the window of his own sitting-room in the Castle, gazing with frowning, unseeing eyes at the marvellous panorama of sea, land and sky stretched out before him. By his side stood the Duchess, also looking troubled and unhappy.

"I fear you ought to let Robin do what he wants," she murmured. "After all, Canada isn't very far away, and he'll probably have had quite enough of it after a year or two. He is unhappy, James. An unhappy love affair is such a blow to a young man's pride. In a way, I feel that he now sees that that girl would never have made him really happy"

"You took her to your heart far too quickly," he said; not over-kindly. "I knew her at once for what she was—heartless, deceitful, painted-up young Jezebel"

"Not heartless," said the Duchess, sighing. "If she'd been heartless, she'd be Robin's wife now, and we should be in a far worse way than we are."

"I can't think what started the lad on his farming scheme," said the Duke crossly.

"Don't you remember, when we had to keep him at home such a long time after he'd had scarlet fever at school, you let him start that chicken farm? I don't believe he's ever been so happy as he was then, poor darling!"

"I've reason to remember those chickens," said the Duke dryly. "Every egg for which you paid him fourpence cost me about half a sovereign."

"Oh, James, not as much as that!"

She began to laugh, and then he, bending down, quoted in her ear:

"If he gets right away for a while he'll completely forget that poor girl," said the Duchess softly.

"No doubt he will. And bring us home by way of a change a wife from the backwoods."

She thought it opportune to change the subject.

"Has Algy told you about that private secretaryship?"

"Yes, and I've told him he's a young fool! A golden spoon is actually shoved into his mouth—but he prefers to remain a poor man in order to engage in politics forsooth, and play the riskiest and dirtiest game ever invented by the wit of man."

"My dear father went into the House when he was only twenty-one."

"Your dear father was a very rich man, and could afford to indulge his fancies! But he died a disappointed man all the same."

"Algy is far cleverer than poor papa was," said the Duchess proudly.

"All your young geese are swans, Laura, and your son Algernon is the greatest goose of them all. But of course you're encouraging him, in spite of all I say!"

She whispered in a tremulous voice, "I only want our children to be happy, James."

And then there came over his rather hard face an expression that was seldom there. He often looked with deep tenderness at the wife who was all the world to him; still, when they discussed their children they had often to agree to differ. But there were both understanding and pity in the look he now cast on her, and in the voice with which he exclaimed, "You only want them to be happy? That's such a little thing to ask—isn't it, my poor darling?"

"Most mothers want a lot more than that," she said slowly.

In a rather shamefaced voice he muttered, "I, too, want Robin and Algy to be happy, Laura—though I know you think me an unnatural father. But I'm afraid, I'm very much afraid, my dear, that want must be our master"

"Not if I can help it!" she cried with spirit.

After the Duchess had left the Duke's room, and while she was walking quickly towards her own quarters, a young footman passed her quickly.

"Jenkins," she said sharply, "what's the matter?"

"There's been a dreadful motor accident, your Grace. His lordship" And then, for if slow he was kind, he saw with dismay what he had done.

"'Is lordship's not 'urt," he said quickly, speaking for once in a completely human, natural voice. "Nothin's 'appened to 'im. It's two young ladies as 'as got 'urt."

"Two young ladies? Do I know them?"

The Duchess sank down into a chair, feeling ashamed of the relief, the joy, Jenkins' words brought her.

"Not as I know of, your Grace." Jenkins was his own respectful, well-trained-footman self again. "His lordship saw the haccident"

"Where was it?" she asked.

"At the level-crossing, your Grace. His lordship was there, and brought the ladies back in his car."

"Where are they?"

"In the hall, your Grace. I'm on my way to fetch Mrs. Minshin."

"Do get her quickly, Jenkins!"

The Duchess told herself a little crossly that she was always the very last person to be informed of anything exciting that happened in her own house.

She was hastening towards the hall when her second son—tall, handsome, fair, self-possessed Lord Algy—almost ran into her. "I'm looking for Jenkins, mother!"

She barred his way. "I hear there's been an accident?"

"Yes, a smash at the level-crossing. Luckily Robin happened to be there. I'm afraid the two girls are pretty badly hurt."

"D'you know who they are?"

He began to laugh. "Well, yes, I do! Robin never noticed it, but the name of one of them was printed in huge gold letters on a dressing-case which old Farley, who helped to pick them up, put in the dicky of Robin's car."

She wondered why he looked so amused.

"Anyone you know, my dear?"

"I've often heard of them. They're the adopted daughters of that awful man who's put up those awful boards on old Dowling's field. You know, 'That's Why He's so Sweet.'"

"Oh!" she exclaimed, a light breaking in on her. "D'you mean that these poor girls belong to that horrid man"

"Of course I do. They're known, naturally, as 'the Tiddlywinks.' But you must try and forget Sir Joseph, mother! Luckily he's in America. I expect they'll have to stay here for some time. I should have taken them to the Cottage Hospital."

Then he lowered his voice, "Robin thought one of them was dead when he first saw her."

"Where have they put the poor things?"

"We thought that they had better be taken straight to the Queen's Room, as it's on the ground floor." He waited a moment. "One of them's a good plucked one, mother. She's in fearful pain, but she just sets her teeth and bears it."

The Duchess winced. Unlike the Duke, she had an inconveniently vivid imagination.

As she came into the long library which led to the Queen's Room, she was overtaken, to her great relief, by her trusted friend, Dr. Wakefield. Together they hastened into the vast bedchamber where Queen Victoria had slept three times in the course of her long reign.

"I've just heard who these young ladies are. I'm sorry they were brought to the Castle!" he exclaimed. "We must manage to move them soon"

On the great bed lay stretched out, side by side, two pathetic young figures. The one who lay on the right side was fair and had her eyes closed. But that she was breathing, she might have been dead, so pale and still lay she. The Duchess noticed that though she was not pretty, she had a delicate, refined little face.

Beyond her there lay a girl of a strangely different type. She was very handsome, with large dark eyes, pencilled eyebrows, a mass of beautifully waved hair, and exquisitely curved lips which had gone white under the lipstick rouge applied to them this morning. By the nurse's advice, the knitted frocks they both wore had been cut off them, and whereas the fair girl's underclothing was of fine white cambric, the dark girl's was of pale pink crêpe-de-chine, trimmed with old lace, a detail which rather shocked the Duchess's old-fashioned taste.

Suddenly the fair girl opened her sunken eyes, and the Duchess bent over her.

"Don't let the papers say anything about the accident. It would be telegraphed to America, and frighten Uncle Joe"

As the doctor began gently prodding her, she winced, and once, when he really hurt her, her cheeks became flooded with colour. For a moment she looked quite pretty.

Again her lips moved, and this time it was the doctor who caught the words.

"Your cousin? I'm going round to have a look at her now. She was not nearly as hurt as you were—a bit shaken, of course, and her arm put out. But you're my worst patient by far!"

A look of intense relief came into the girl's eyes, and Dr. Wakefield said to himself, "Tiddlewin or no, she's a good little sort."

Duke was spending a few days in his gloomy old London mansion, from which all glory, for the time being, had departed. He had come down early to breakfast in the great shadowed dining-room, and by his plate lay a pile of letters.

Quickly he extracted the only one from which he expected to derive any pleasure. It was in the Duchess's flowing, old-fashioned handwriting. They wrote to each other every day—sometimes he wrote to her twice, just a few words scribbled on a little block he always carried in his coat pocket. Her letters were always written on big sheets, and to him they formed the pleasantest reading in the world, for she was one of those wise wives who never write disagreeable news.

Should he wait till he had eaten his breakfast before seeing what she had to say? No, he would not. So he gave a good tap to the top of his boiled egg, and then he opened the envelope. It was a longer letter than usual, and there came over him just a little premonition of—no, not of evil, but of something which might prove momentous to them both.

"Tuesday afternoon.

"Everything is going on quite well here. But something has happened which, though it pleases me, I'm afraid may not quite please you...."

"Eh, what?" he said to himself, with frowning' eyes, and remembered that odd little premonition.

"Robin has fallen in love again! And I have been proved right, for once! It was not natural for even a very good, unselfish young man to be always drifting indoors, in order to sit by an invalid girl's side, instead of staying out of doors, doing all the things he used to do before he'd ever met her!

"But be that as it may, the darling boy confessed to me this afternoon that he now cares for dear little Molly far more deeply, far more truly, than he ever did for his first love. (Of course, that isn't true, but it's a great comfort that he thinks it.)

"I can see that he's very nervous lest your justified dislike of Sir Joseph Tiddlewin should make you averse from the notion of this marriage. But. I have ventured to assure him that you would never think of vetoing anything you thought for his true happiness.

"After all, if one's to be quite honest, which I, at any rate, always try to be with you, my dearest, we must admit that it will be very, very pleasant to feel that Robin has chosen entirely, because he likes her, a girl who, if rumour is to be believed, is one of the greatest co-heiresses in England! You may not like sugar, but it is a very respectable, comfortable sort of, I suppose one must say food? from which to have derived one's wealth.

"I ought to say that Robin has not spoken to dear little Molly yet. But I have no doubt at all of what her answer will be. She's not his first love, but he's certainly her first love, or else I'm very much mistaken.

"Your happy, agitated, devoted wife, "

The Duke sat staring at the sheets of paper spread out before him on the table-cloth for quite a long time. What an amazing thing! What an unexpected thing! What an astounding thing!

He did not feel particularly pleased, but neither did he feel really sorry. He had not seen much of his two young unbidden guests, tho', unluckily, he did remember that of the two he had preferred the one whose name he knew to be Hilda. There was a kind of pride and independence about Hilda Tiddlewin that had rather taken his fancy, while he had known instinctively that poor little Molly was afraid of him. Grimly he said to himself now, "How like Robin to have chosen the wrong one!" though he little knew how true that secret thought would turn out to be.

Then he did something he had never done before, which very much surprised the old man who, after having been for many years butler to the Duke's late sister, was now caretaker of the Duke's London house. His Grace rang the bell, and asked that another egg should be boiled for him. The one which he had cracked had almost gone cold while he was reading—ahem—his letters and the paper.

Two days later the Duke cut short his stay in town and went down to the Castle, and as soon as the two were alone together, father and son clasped hands silently. Then the Duke said very kindly, "Well, Robin, I congratulate you! I think Molly a very sweet-natured and pleasant young woman. Your mother and I both consider that you have made a very wise choice."

"Thank you, father."

"I am anxious, naturally, to have a word or two further with you about the matter," and the Duke cleared his throat. Then he went on, choosing his words carefully:

"I have never actually met Sir Joseph Tiddlewin, and, as you know, I naturally have a prejudice against him. Still, I remember Lamton"—Mr. Lamton was the Duke's solicitor and his good friend—"telling me that he wasn't a bad sort of old chap. From what I can make out, he doesn't seem to interfere very much with Hilda and Molly?"

The young man drew himself up. "He hasn't any occasion to interfere much with Molly," he said quickly. "I can't help being glad that their relationship is not a very near one, father. Though she does call him uncle, she is only, by birth, very distantly related to Sir Joseph. Hilda is his real niece."

"Eh, what?"

As he afterwards told the Duchess, the Duke felt just a little touch of discomfort sweep over him at this, to him, quite unexpected bit of news.

"As a matter of fact," went on the other rather quickly, "I think her people, though they bore the same name, must have been superior in every way to what we know of Sir Joseph Tiddlewin. Molly's father was a schoolmaster; he died when he was only thirty-seven, leaving his wife with five children—four boys and Molly. Her mother died eight years ago. The boys have all gone out to the Colonies—two are in Australia, and two are in Canada. Of course, I hope we shall see a good deal of those two, when we go out there."

"Go out there?" repeated the Duke. "D'you mean that Molly is willing to go out to Canada and farm!"

"Of course she's willing to go, father! She's as keen about it as I am, every bit. And as she has now complete control over her own money she suggests we should use it to stock our farm."

"Use her money to stock your farm?"

"I oughtn't to say a word against Sir Joseph, father, for when he—I won't say adopted her, for he's done nothing of the sort—but when he suggested that Molly should come and live with him and with his real niece, and she at last consented to do so, he gave her right out ten thousand pounds. He said he thought it was the only fair thing to do. And as she's now twenty-one, the money is, of course, in her absolute possession. But it's still in his business, and yields quite a lot of interest, thirteen hundred a year, as a matter of fact. But she is free to sell the shares any day she likes."

"I suppose he will leave her something more when he dies?" said the Duke in a low tone.

"Well no, I don't think he will. He told her quite frankly that Hilda was to be his heiress, and that he didn't intend to give her, Molly, more than this ten thousand pounds. Hilda has been brought up by him absolutely as his own child from when she was two years old."

Then, suddenly, in a changed voice, he exclaimed: "I hope you didn't think that I was going to marry a great heiress, father? Nothing would have induced me to do that!"

The Duke remained silent. Then, after a pause, he said: "Well, I confess I did think that the two girls were going to be the co-heiresses of the old man."

"Did mother think so too?" and the young man looked very, very much disturbed.

The Duke waited a moment. Then he wrestled, if silently, then fiercely, with the Old Adam within him, while before him danced the lying jeer:

But at last he said, in a firm, resonant tone: "Make quite sure of one thing, Robin. Whatever your mother and I may have thought, it will make no difference to our joy in your happiness. As for Sir Joseph Tiddlewin"—he waited a moment—"I'm relieved that the woman who will one day bear your mother's name is only very distantly related to that vulgar old brute!"

And then the father and the son, who were so unlike one another, suddenly both burst into hearty laughter.

"It must have been a most awful jar, when I told you just now about Molly's stocking our farm," chuckled the younger man.

"Well, yes, it was a jar, and worse than a jar, my dear boy. But I don't think we'll disturb your Molly's little bit of money. After all, thirteen per cent isn't easily come by honestly in these days! "

rejoiced in her darling Molly's wonderful happiness, though she secretly wondered how anybody, even uncritical Molly, could really love, what she to herself called love—Lord Ardvilly. But, as the days went by, so full of joy and excitement to everyone about her, she felt secretly exceedingly forlorn. Though she knew she ought to be ashamed of the feeling, her heart sank at the thought of going back to live alone with, both sharp-tongued, and unpleasantly suspicious, if clever. Uncle Joe. She was aware what a roasting—to use a favourite expression of his—Sir Joseph would give her, when he realised that it was Molly, and not she herself, who had carried off a future duke. But what really made her feel so heavy-hearted was the fact that, though she did pot envy Molly her Robin, she did very much envy her darling her entire adoption by all these kind, loving, and, in a sense, simple-hearted people.

Poor Hilda! She had come to love the Duchess dearly during her happy, carefree days of convalescence. Her heart had been so starved of mother-daughter love. She even had a kind feeling for the Duke. For one thing, he was so good, in his queer way, to Molly!

And now to-day, sitting alone in the conservatory which opened out of the pleasant sitting-room which was now Molly's special property, she remembered the Duchess's kind words to herself: "And you, my dear, must often come here after the wedding's over! You know that we think of you as our darling Molly's sister. In fact, it's difficult to remember that she isn't your sister—I don't think any two sisters have ever loved one another more fondly than you two do."

Often come here? No hope of that! Deep in her heart she believed that once the wedding was over, and when Molly and Robin were settled down for their three years in Canada, she would inevitably cut loose from this dear place, and all that it stood for to her.

The only member of the family likely to keep in touch with her was Lord Algernon, Robin's brother, the only one of them all who was clever, headstrong, and ambitious.

He and Hilda, if often sparring almost angrily together, had become very good friends. On one occasion he had spoken to her quite openly of the—one could not call them bad, but uncomfortable—terms, on which he was with his father.

Hilda could not understand the Duke's disapproval of Lord Algy's political ambitions, or why he should be so anxious that his son should try to make money. Very sincerely had she sympathised with Lord Algy when he had made her that confidence. Money meant very little to Hilda Tiddlewin, and that he had given up, as she knew he had done, the chance of a position which would probably lead on to partnership in a great Anglo-American banking-house, had made her respect him more than she had ever done any other young man.

She told herself, now, that it was pleasant to know that they, at any rate, would remain friends. Lord Algy was in London to-day, and Hilda found herself missing his jovial, teasing, merry presence.

All at once the person on whom her thoughts had been dwelling came into the sitting-room and looked round, as if looking for something or somebody. Then he had come back, unexpectedly?

Hilda remained very still, but, as was of course inevitable, Lord Algy soon found her. Though she would have been a little surprised to hear it, he had already spent some time looking for her all over the great house.

"I hear they're all out," he began. "I was so afraid that you had gone out too!" He looked at her with glowing eyes. "Congratulate me, Miss Tiddlewin. I've got the job! Mother will be pleased. As for father—well, though he thinks I'm hopeless, I think he will be glad too."

"I do indeed congratulate you!"

Then with a touch of real pleasure in her voice she went on: "I think it splendid of you to do the work you want to do, and to lead the kind of life you want to lead. I expect you'll be Prime Minister some day!"

He said suddenly: "I've thought far too much of myself these days. But now"—in a lighter voice he went on—"I've 'a heart at leisure from itself, to soothe and sympathise.'"

There was a pause. He was looking straight down into her upturned face. "You don't look very happy! Is anything special the matter? Forgive me for asking you."

She suddenly felt as if she must laugh or cry, or both.

"I feel sad at losing Molly," her voice was trembling.

"Have they fixed on the happy day?"

There was a touch of sarcasm in his voice.

She pulled herself together, and said, smiling, "It can't be too soon for Robin"

"Come, come, be honest! Nor for Molly either, eh?"

She laughed. "Well, yes, I admit that. How wonderful it must be to be in love!"

There came a serious look over his fair, debonair face. "Have you never been in love, Miss Tiddlywinks?"

"Please don't call me that! You know I hate it"

"But have you?"

"Never, thank Heaven! Have you?"

"Why, yes, lots of times, of course."

Then he said, "But no one will ever catch me falling in love again, now."

"I suppose it would interfere too much with your work?"

"Falling in love would, not being in love. The only person I'll ever be in love with again, will be my own wife"

"I'm glad you're old-fashioned enough to feel that a man ought to be in love with his own wife. I should never have thought it of you!"

"Of course I feel that. Marriage would be hell otherwise," and he looked genuinely surprised.

She said suddenly, "I don't really wonder that, in a way, you're all so nice."

"Thank you."

He stepped back and bowed.

"You've all such a wonderful example of real love always before you," she said slowly.

"You're thinking of mother and father? Well, yes, I suppose that does help to make one decent."

"It would me"

"You?"

There came a tender inflection in his voice she had never heard there before.

Then, in a quizzical tone, he exclaimed: "Why, you're an angel! All nice young ladies are angels"

She began toying with the belt of her frock. "It will be just the same with Robin and Molly," she said gravely.

"I'd like a little more spice in my married life, at any rate at first, in the beginning—wouldn't you?"

She hesitated. "I don't know that I should. But I haven't ever thought about it."

"Haven't you? I've thought a lot about marriage, especially lately."

"Your mother told me that when you were six years old, and someone asked you what you meant to be, you said, 'A bachelor.'"

"That's a long time ago, Miss Tiddlewin. Besides, I've found love catching."

Then even Lord Algy was not going to be left to her? She got up from the chair on which she had been sitting.

"Perhaps it is with some people. I suppose that means that you've seen someone in London with whom you've fallen in love?"

And then Hilda Tiddlewin had the great surprise of her life. Indeed, nothing that can happen will ever surprise her as much.

The young man seized her right hand and held it very tight. "Of course you know that"

Then he stopped, and she tried to pull her hand away.

"—I love you," he went on ardently. "Love you with all my heart, and with everything else good and bad there is of me. And I mean to get you if I wait years—and even if you marry another chap in between!"

Then she said something which afterwards, even to herself, seemed rather weak and silly.

"This is very sudden," she murmured, and sank down into her chair again.

"It isn't at all sudden—this part of it isn't! My falling in love with you was sudden—that I will admit."

Then he knelt down by her, and neither of them gave a moment's thought to the fact that they might easily be surprised.

"When Robin put you into my arms on the day of that fortunate accident" He waited a moment, and then said, "Darling, I felt as if I should never be able to let you go again! You were so brave, so splendid, and—and so lovely. I thought Molly such a tiresome little thing, yet you made them all look after her, and, for some minutes, no one thought of you. I was utterly, grotesquely miserable after that. I thought Robin liked you, and I kept remembering what a horrid old woman once said to mother: 'My dear, no girl refuses a duke!' and Robin's next thing to a duke. And then, all at once, I saw that he liked Molly. That was the day father went to town, and that you came down for the first time, and I made mother give us champagne. As you wouldn't have any, I drank your share, and that added to my joy!"

He got up, and as she got up too, he seized both her hands. "Of course, I wasn't altogether happy! For one thing, I hadn't got a job! I have now. Let me see what it will bring me in. Let's call it ten thousand bobs—that sounds more than five hundred—a year! I was horribly afraid I shouldn't get it. And even now, I know I oughtn't to ask you yet—not till I've made good, I mean"

"I wouldn't worry about that," she whispered very low.

He asked joyfully: "Does that mean I may ask you?"

She nodded.

"Will you?" he asked.

And then, when she was safe in his arms, and feeling for the first time in her life very small and shy, she whispered, "Won't I!"