The Windsor Magazine/'And Love Is Still the Lord of All!'

HE Duchess walked with swift footsteps along the carriage-road which led from the park, through a high stone arch, straight on to the beautiful stretch of solitary downland, where, according to local tradition, Boadicea made her last stand.

Feeling what she very seldom did feel, just a little lonely, she had put on her hat, and slipped out, with her griffon, Puck, for only companion, from the charming room in the castle, which was called her grace's boudoir, down a narrow staircase leading straight out of doors. Her eldest son and his sister had been spending two or three days at Chillingworth Place, a neighbouring house, of which the hostess was a noted Mrs. Leo Hunter. The two were to come home this morning, and their mother thought that there was just a chance she might meet them on their way; only a chance, because there were two ways back—one by the downs, another by what was called the lower road to the castle.

All at once she became aware that, as if framed in the arch, there stood on the rutty, white chalk cart-track cut in the short grass a small empty open motor-car, with two shabby suit-cases strapped on behind.

And then there fell on her ears the sound of bitter sobbing—a girl or woman crying her heart out on the other side of the park wall.

The Duchess stayed her steps just under the high arch, and she was glad she had done so, for suddenly there rose on the still air words, uttered in a man's voice, words which sounded startlingly near to where she stood concealed.

"Why should we say good-bye now? Why don't you throw up everything? It isn't a bad sort of life out there—there are lots of jolly people! I know I could make you happy"

There rose a wailing cry in the still air: "Don't tempt me, Jack! I've promised to give you up—you know I have. They're both so proud of me, and they've been so good to me!"

The answer came at once, fiercely bitter: "Good? What rot! They're selfish brutes—both of them, and I think your mother's the worst. If you sell yourself, as they hope you will, to some rich man, or what's called 'an elder son,' they'll have a cosy old age. You know that as well as I do! You've admitted it again and again!"

The girl's answer was uttered in quieter, more resolute, accents: "I hate your talking like that, Jack. It's beastly of me ever to say a word against mother. She knows I've become luxurious and pleasure-loving, and that now I'm not fit to be a poor man's wife. And you know, after all, that you've been awfully extravagant"

The man broke in furiously, "And whose fault was that? It was for you—to be near you—that I flung my money away! If I'm a pauper now, it's because I've been fool enough to love you. If it weren't for leaving you, I'd be thankful to get away from the hateful crowd of mindless idiots who've made you what you are"

Suddenly his voice changed, it became low, insistent, tender. "I shouldn't mind if I didn't know you love me, too—even if I have been a rotter. We're such pals, we care for all the same things—oh, darling, we'd have such a glorious life together out there, if you'd only take the plunge!"

And then to those two, who believed themselves so utterly alone in that solitary, windswept spot, there came a startling diversion. Puck, the griffon, began barking furiously.

There was nothing for it, now, but for the Duchess to walk forward from under the arch. And then, while calling her dog, instinctively she looked to her right, where stood the two people whose voices she had just heard raised in the eternal duet of love, pain, and parting. They were standing close up to the rose-red brick wall, under the spreading branches of an evergreen oak.

The young man was tall and fair, and his now haggard face had about it something both arresting and attractive. Clasped in his arms was a girl whose slender body was now again shaking with agonised sobs. She was bare-headed, the woollen cap she had been wearing lay at her feet.

Though she quickly looked away from the, to her, piteous sight, the Duchess had time to note that the girl was wearing a rather peculiar sports-frock. It consisted of a bold grey and brown check skirt, edged with turquoise blue, and a plain brown jumper, into whose grey collar a touch of the same blue as that edging of the skirt had been cleverly introduced. What made the unhappy pair's unwilling eavesdropper specially notice what the young woman was wearing was owing to the odd accident that she herself possessed the exact twin of that frock. It had been sent to the castle a week ago, on approval, from the artist in dress where she got her country clothes.

Calling the dog again sharply to her, Puck's mistress began walking quickly down the winding road which led ultimately to Chillingworth.

More than would have been the case with most women, she felt stirred by the scene of which she had been an involuntary witness. For one thing, it always hurt her to see anyone in trouble, and she felt that the man and girl she had surprised on that lonely stretch of downland were indeed in deep trouble.

And yet there are people who declare confidently that romance is dead—that the modern girl has "no use" for love! The Duchess told herself that even if fashion affects and governs the manifestations of passion, the fundamental realities of life remain as they were, and love, when all is said and done, is still the lord of all as in the days of the old ballad.

But it is, alas, no longer the fashion to love nobly, that is with tenderness and abnegation, as she herself—oh, happy woman!—knew herself to be loved, even now, after close on twenty-five years of married life. Has that type of love, the only type of love worth winning and giving, gone for the time being entirely out of the world? According to many of her worldly wise friends, it has.

At last she left the downland behind her, and was speeding along the solitary road edging the paling of Chillingworth Place. And then, when close to the lodge, there came a motor swinging through the open gate, and her heart gave a leap when she saw that it was her son. Lord Ardvilly, driving his sister home.

"Darlings?" she cried. "You've come just in time to give me a lift!"

The motor stopped; Lord Ardvilly jumped out; and the Duchess jumped in.

"Go home by the lower road, Robin. I interrupted such a touching love scene up by the stone arch"

"They can't be at it still," observed the young man, smiling,

"I'm sure they are!" exclaimed his mother. "They looked as if they were going to be at it for hours. They were saying good-bye, but not, I hope, for ever, though they thought so, poor things."

"Mother, you really are incorrigibly romantic!" And seventeen-year-old Lady Susie laughed aloud.

To that the Duchess made no answer; instead, she asked, "What sort of a time have you both had? All the smart young London set, I suppose?"

"It was simply lovely, mother," the girl answered eagerly "and who do you think was there? Someone I've always longed to see—the famous Irene Shellbridge!"

"The famous Irene Shellbridge? I've never heard of her"

"Oh, but you must have done, mother. She's always called 'the beautiful Miss Shellbridge,' and she's always in the picture-papers. She's really lovely—not just merely smart, and what father would call 'chick,' but, well, just 'it'! A long, pale, camellia-like face, with marvellous green-blue eyes, and naturally pencilled eyebrows. She's no need to make up, though of course she does make up, and rather overmuch. She's quite a good talker, too, and not a bit vain. We want to have her in our next party, if you don't mind?"

"I never mind anything you want," said the mother fondly.

But within a few days of the Duchess's solitary walk, and of a drive home which was to become retrospectively memorable, the Duke lost his only sister, and there were no young parties at the castle for quite a long time.

Duchess had just finished the last of her letters, and she moved away from her writing-table with the pleasant feeling that she was now free—free even to do nothing, if so it took her fancy. She felt happy to-day—perhaps a thought absurdly happy. For one thing the Christmas holidays were over, and for a wonder there were no guests in the castle to be entertained, and she was settling down to the routine of the country life she loved so well. Also, the Duke and Lord Ardvilly, who had been away on a shooting visit, were coming back this afternoon, and the knowledge that she would so soon see them both filled her heart with joy.

She was a very feminine woman; she liked to have her menfolk about her; and her eldest boy had been away from home a great deal these last three months. When he had first become what a great-uncle of hers called an ensign in the Guards, he had always come home for even the briefest leave. But of late he had begun to go about a good deal—here, there, and everywhere, or so it seemed to his mother, often staying with people whose names she hardly knew, and of whom, deep in her heart, she vaguely disapproved, for they were the New Rich, rather than those who were now the New Poor. But of course her boy's new friends had a great deal to offer in the way of "fun" and "sport" to even the least sophisticated young man. Also every fledgling must leave the nest some time, and the Duchess sometimes reminded herself of the old saying, "Homekeeping youths have ever homely wits." However, now, to-day, her eldest son was coming home for quite a long time, in fact, for a whole week....

Suddenly she leapt to her feet with a cry of welcome, for the door of the boudoir opened quietly, and the two so dear to her walked through it.

"My dear," said the Duke, in what was for him a curiously gentle voice, "Robin has something to tell you."

Then he added, irrelevantly, "We came by train. We did not motor down."

Her heart began to beat quickly, painfully, for, as she kissed them both, she knew as well as if he had already told her that her boy was in love—that he was engaged, or, if not actually engaged, about to be so, and to someone of whom his father did not approve.

While these thoughts, these certainties, flashed through her mind, she was suddenly startled to see the reflection of her face in the dim surface of an eighteenth-century mirror. All the colour, the clear bright pink of which she was. in a sense, innocently vain, for it owed nothing to art, had drifted from her face, leaving it very white.

At last she spoke—her silence had not lasted more than a fraction of a minute, and yet it had seemed a long time to Lord Ardvilly, as well as to the Duke.

"Well, Robin," she said, and tried to smile, "what is it?"

And then he blurted out, bravely and baldly, the words, "I want to, get married, mother. I love the most beautiful girl in the world. She's more than beautiful; she's awfully good and kind. Clever, too! Not a bit spoilt. I've been longing to have her here, so has Susie. But we didn't like to ask you, because you said we oughtn't to have a party till after the New Year."

And then, she didn't quite know how it happened, he was again in her arms, and this time she felt him clinging to her—as he had sometimes done when he was a little child.

"I'm so glad, so glad—if this is for your happiness, my darling boy."

"Of course I'm happy! Gloriously happy!"

Again the Duke spoke, and again he seemed curiously unlike himself. "Yes," he said quietly, and there was no twinkle in his eye, "your son, Laura, has won the heart of the lady who, in my father's young days, would have been called the reigning beauty of London."

"Then you've seen her, James?" and she managed to put a pretty touch of eagerness into her shaking voice.

He shook his head. "No, I have not yet had that honour," and this time there was in his voice that familiar touch of dryness she had missed sorely in the last few moments.

Even so she still felt not only oppressed, but bewildered. What a fool she had been not to guess why Robin, her cherished boy whom she had thought still all her own, had lately been so very, very much away!

Lord Ardvilly's eyes wandered across to his mother's writing-table. "I wonder," he said impulsively, "if you'd write her a little line now? There's still twenty minutes before the post goes. It would be so awfully good of you, mother"

"But I don't even know her name!" cried the Duchess hysterically. She tried to laugh—and failed.

"Her name?" The young man looked for a moment much taken aback. "Of course, I thought you knew her name—Irene Shellbridge."

"Irene Shellbridge?" she repeated slowly.

The name meant nothing to her—and yet? And yet it certainly awoke a distant echo in her mind. She tried with agonising intensity to remember in what connection she had heard the name—and failed.

She was moving, now, towards her writing-table. "Come over here and help me with my letter, Robin. But, before I write to her, I must ask you, dear boy, if you consider yourself engaged?"

He answered at once, with what she felt to be a good deal of manly dignity. "I feel sure she knows I love her—but no, mother, we're not engaged. I felt I ought to speak to you and to my father before speaking to her."

"But—you think she loves you?" and the Duchess looked up with a sad, searching look into her son's plain, honest face.

He hesitated, and a flush rose to his forehead. "I think she does love me," he said in a low voice. "And yet—and yet—oh, mother, I can't believe in my luck! It frightens me."

She sat down and drew a sheet of note-paper towards her. "I don't know what to say," she muttered helplessly.

"Say you're longing to meet her, mother—surely that's true?"

"Of course it's true," and her lips quivered.

Then quickly she wrote the words:

"Wednesday.


 * "My son has told me that you and he have become friends. I need hardly say that I am longing to make your acquaintance, and I hope you will give us the pleasure of seeing you here this coming week-end. If you will allow him to do so, Robin will call for you and motor you down at whatever time is convenient to yourself the day after to-morrow."

"Is that all right?" she asked.

"Splendid, mother!"

"And now for her address?"

", Grosvenor Mansions, Curzon Street."

When the Duchess had put her fateful note into an envelope, Lord Ardvilly asked, shamefacedly, "May I post your letters myself? I'd like to stretch my legs a bit."

She nodded. Had she spoken, tears would have choked her voice.

The young man gathered up her pile of letters—the letters, she told herself bitterly, she had written—was it an hour, or aeons ago?—when she was still a happy, carefree woman.

And then, when the door had closed on her son, she put her hands over her face, and began to sob, convulsively.

The Duke put his arms round her. "Come, come," he said, "it isn't as bad as that, my love."

But she could see—in fact his very words told her—how much he was disturbed.

She got up suddenly, walked across to the door, and locked it. It was a trick she had when she wished to be alone—quite alone, or alone with one of her children. She very rarely did that when her husband was with her, for he disliked the doing of anything odd or unusual. But she thought he would forgive her to-day, and he did.

She came quickly back to where the Duke was standing.

"Now, James"—and she put her hands on his breast—"why is it I've never heard of this girl before? And yet—why do I seem to know her name?"

This time he laughed—one of his quick, cackling little laughs.

"Thank Heaven!" he cried, "Laura is herself again! You've not heard of Miss Shellbridge, my dear, because, up to now, at any rate, none of our children have particularly cared for the set—I fancy they're called 'the bright young things'—to which the young lady belongs. You know her name because she's really famous for her beauty. Robin's right there—not a doubt of it! But whatever she is or is not, your boy's set his heart on her. We've got to face that. It's lucky that you like clever people. This girl must be really clever, or she wouldn't have attracted Robin."

She felt puzzled. "You mean?"

"Well? Don't opposites generally like one another!"

She allowed the gibe to pass. "What do you really know of her, James?"

As a rule the Duke was a very direct man; but now he hesitated, he hummed, and he hawed.

"There's really very little to know," he said at last.

"Come, come—you can't take me in, however clever you may be!"

He knew that what she said was true, so, picking his words, he answered, "Major Shellbridge began life with everything handsome about him. Then he married an extravagant woman, and exchanged into an Indian regiment. They came home to find their only child grown up a beauty, and already taken up by your friend. Lady Chillingworth."

"My friend? Don't dare to call her that! I think her a horrid woman"

"You must keep that thought to yourself, henceforth. Robin met the girl there, and I've little doubt but that Lady Chillingworth engineered the whole thing"

"I suppose the girl's very extravagant?"

"No one's over-careful in that set. But it's said that her parents are living on their little capital, treating their daughter as an investment." He added grimly, "They intend her to make a good marriage."

"And they won't be disappointed," said the Duchess sorely.

"Well, as things are, we shall be wise to judge for ourselves as to what she's really like; after something which happened to-day I shall never believe anything I hear."

He was smiling broadly. "What d'you think Robin and I heard this very afternoon, in the train?"

She gave him a quick glance. But there was no eager look of bright expectancy on her face; and he told himself, with concern, that she was taking this unlucky business of the boy very hard—harder even than he had thought she would.

"There were a couple of women in the railway-carriage, and they began talking about us."

"About us?" And then there did come a little colour into her pale cheeks. "Why, there's nothing to say—about us."

"Oh, isn't there?"

"What did they say?"

"I'll tell you, if you'll only listen."

"I am listening!"

"Well, they dismissed me with a word or two, just saying that I was odd and dull and proud. All true, no doubt. But when they came to you, it was a very different pair of shoes! They said you were charming; and the principal gossip, I thought her quite an old dear, declared that you had only one fault—this was that you were so very vague. To prove this she told a story about you"

"About me? How ridiculous!"

"She said that one day when I'd gone down to the station to meet you—an honour I don't ever remember paying you, by the way—you'd been at once so overjoyed and so vague that you'd 'kissed the porter and tipped the Duke!'"

Over the face he loved there came at last a ripple of laughter. "Oh, I wish I'd done that! Why did I never think of it?"

"? Here she is"

Through the long, shadow-filled, book-lined room, where the Duchess sat close to a great log-fire, rang the joyful proud cry.

The Duchess stood up, and as she did so she turned on a lamp which half an hour ago she had refused to have lit. She had even then been terribly anxious, for they were already long after their time.

But now, thank God, there were the two for whom she had been waiting—Lord Ardvilly, not over-tall, and, oh, still so boyish in appearance, and, by his side, a tall, slight, almost wraithlike-looking figure.

Irene Shellbridge was wearing a pale-grey woollen frock, and that added to the strangely immaterial look which she presented as she glided towards her hostess. But when the girl reached the circle of light cast by the lamp, the Duchess saw that she was very much made up, her cheeks rouged, her mouth a smudge of scarlet. But—she was beautiful.

"I was getting a little anxious about you, Robin. You're very late. Had you a break-down?"

"We had! But it didn't matter! I got Irene into a comfortable, warm cottage, where they gave her an early cup of tea"

And then he suddenly turned and took the lovely girl's hand in his. With a break in his voice he exclaimed, "Mother, it's all right—and I'm the happiest chap in the world!"

The Duchess gathered the tall figure to her, and even through the thick warm stuff dress she felt it cold, cold.

She took hold of the girl's hand ... and it was like a dead hand.

"My dear," she murmured, "you're chilled to the bone."

And then, at last, Irene Shellbridge opened her painted lips. "You're very kind," she said, in a low, strangled tone. "But I'm not really cold—my hands are always like that."

The young man was eager that his mother should see the beautiful girl he loved. Exultantly he turned on more lights, and the Duchess's visitor stood fully revealed.

Yes, he had not exaggerated! Even in her unbecoming, close boy-like motoring-hat, her face, if spoilt by powder and paint; to the Duchess's old-fashioned taste, was exquisite, each feature flawless.

And then, all at once, the girl's beauty was obscured by a rush of tears welling up to her deep-lidded eyes; and the older woman felt moved.

"Robin," she exclaimed, "go and find your father! I know he was anxious too. Tell him all about your break-down. I want to make friends with Irene—and I can't do that comfortably with you standing there, watching us."

The young man squeezed his mother's hand, and then, after a backward glance, he left the room.

The Duchess waited till he had closed the door, then she turned out the lamp which stood close to where they were still standing.

"We shall be far more comfortable so," and she gently forced the girl down into a chair before the glowing fire.

"Don't cry, my dear," she said gently.

"I'm tired, that's all—tired, and I suppose"—the girl tried to smile—"rather upset. I didn't think—somehow I was surprised—when Robin spoke to me."

"But you knew he loved you?" There was a touch of sternness in the Duchess's voice.

"I knew that people had gossiped about us."

She waited a moment, then said deliberately, "And chaffed me about being a duchess"

Her hostess winced a little.

"—but the time went on, and as he said nothing, I thought it all a mistake."

"You're glad it has come right?"

The girl looked for the first time straight into the Duchess's face. There were deep dark circles round her eyes, and her lovely mouth, now spoilt by the gash-like streak of bright-red paint across it, was quivering.

"I know how really lucky I am, for Robin's so good, so kind, so unselfish—so unlike most of the young men I know."

Then her voice altered; it became eager, defensive. "I know you must be sorry, Duchess! I'm sure you've heard horrid things about me. But, I want to tell you that I'm not a bit like what people think, and—and I do mean to show myself worthy of my luck."

Again her listener winced, but she felt touched too, and, in a sense, reassured. This girl evidently had a heart, even, what is so much rarer nowadays, a conscience. But did she love Robin? Robin's mother doubted it—ay, more than doubted it.

She made up her mind she would be sincere. "It would be dishonest on my part to pretend that we were not very much surprised when Robin told us of his love for you. But don't think that we've heard horrid things about you—in fact, I hardly knew your name! The Duke was more fortunate. He had heard of 'the lovely Miss Shellbridge.' Beauty is a great asset, my dear—a gift of God that I, for my part, would have given a great deal to possess, when I was your age."

Irene's face lit up. Impulsively she exclaimed, "Why, I think you're lovely—and, oh, so young-looking! When we first came into this room I thought one of Robin's sisters was sitting by the fire"

"That's because I hadn't allowed the lights to be turned on!" But, being a woman, and very human, the Duchess was pleased by the sincere compliment.

"And now I'll take you to your room: I've arranged for your maid to be close to you."

The girl's stiff, distant manner returned. "I haven't got a maid," she said shortly. Then she added, "Robin told me that you knew that we are quite poor" And this was Irene Shellbridge's first, and almost her last, allusion to her parents, if, indeed, allusion it could be called.

"I do like her! I do—I do—I do—and you've got to like her too, James."

"I don't like her! I don't—I don't—I don't—and I never shall like her, Laura."

"She's infinitely nicer than we had any right to expect."

"I don't know, my dear what you did expect; but I'm quite sure of one thing" And the Duke looked what he very rarely did look, thoroughly disturbed.

The Duchess gazed at him anxiously. "Of what are you sure?"

"—that the girl doesn't care for Robin as a young woman ought to care for the man she is going to marry. She likes him—" he waited, seeking in his mind for a simile, "in just the manner a girl likes some foolish old chap who's fallen head over ears in love with her, and—knows how to behave himself!"

"I should feel very miserable if I believed that."

"Since she arrived, five days ago, the girl has fallen in love." The Duke was smiling now.

"What d'you mean?" cried the Duchess, bewildered.

"She's fallen in love with you, Laura. It's you who've won her heart—not that poor lad of yours! She'd far rather be in your company than Robin's"

"I know what you mean. But it's only because she's never known"

She stopped, a little confused.

"—a really kind, loving woman before? I'm inclined to agree with you there."

"No, no! I didn't mean that"

"By the way, I suppose she's got some friends hard by—I mean in the town?"

The Duchess looked startled. "I don't think so."

"She must have, for she has slipped off, alone, after breakfast every day, at the time when you're always busy over your letters, and when I'm busy with Robin. And once Susie met her in the High Street, tearing along"

"How very odd! I think the truth is she likes being alone."

"She may now, but mark my words, Laura, if they do marry, it won't be long before the old saying comes true"

"What old saying?"

"In married life three's company, and two is none," quoted the Duke.

"All the world loves a lover," and very soon the Duchess had become aware that everyone in the castle, at any rate, realised that Lord Ardvilly was going to be married.

Yet, though everyone brought into immediate contact with her, excepting the Duke, was becoming fond of her, and regarding her as the future Lady Ardvilly, Irene Shellbridge showed a curious shrinking from even a private announcement of her engagement. Stranger still, from the point of view of the Duchess, she resolutely declined to allow her own parents to hear the great news till her return to town.

Even so, all doubts were put at rest, at any rate within the castle, by the arrival from London on the Tuesday of a mysterious gentleman, who brought with him a modest-looking black box. The contents of the box, so he informed the housekeeper when enjoying the excellent luncheon provided for him, had been insured, as a special risk for that one day, for no less a sum than ten thousand pounds!

Now while this confidence was being made, the Duke, the Duchess and all their children, including the hero of the occasion, were gathered together in the Duchess's boudoir. And, on a low table, drawn up in the middle of the room, near, yet not too near, to the fire, lay what that modest black box had contained. A mass, to wit, of wonderful, gleaming jewels—pearls, strung and unstrung, emeralds, diamonds, sapphires, and rubies, set and unset, the whole looking, so said Lady Baby, as the youngest daughter was still called, like a corner from Aladdin's Cave!

Now the Duchess had been a great heiress, and she was still a very rich woman. To those that have, more is often added, and so perhaps it was quite natural that a few days ago, what to herself she had called a nice little sum of five thousand pounds, had unexpectedly appeared in the form of a bonus, and been added to her current banking-account. This sum she had already privately told her eldest son should be his to spend as he chose on the future Lady Ardvilly.

And now they were all waiting impatiently for the fortunate girl who was to make her choice as to what she would like to possess among these beautiful jewels. But Irene Shellbridge, though she knew they were expecting her, dallied strangely.

At long last the door opened, and, as she walked into the room, a violent tremor ran through the heart of one of those who had so longed to see her here.

And yet even while that strange sensation of sharp recoil sprang into being, the Duchess was telling herself that she was a fool—a nervous, suspicious fool. What had brought that sensation of extreme surprise, and vivified into sudden life a forgotten incident which had been as if obliterated from the tablet of her memory, was such a trifling thing! Only the fact that Lord Ardvilly's fiancée, her lovely face lit up into a quivering smile, was wearing, on this mild winter afternoon, for the first time since her arrival at the castle, a charming and rather unusual jumper-suit. The skirt, of a bold grey and brown check, was bordered with a band of turquoise blue, while the plain brown jumper moulding the slender figure had a grey collar, on which were cunningly worked in touches of the same blue which edged the skirt. Suddenly the Duchess put up her hand with an instinctive gesture over her face. But that gesture did not shut out the vision which had so suddenly sprung into life; the vision of a man clasping in his arms a tall, slight figure who was clad in the twin to the sports-frock, now worn by the girl bending over the gleaming jewels.

" do like her, mother? You've become real friends with her?"

There was a very urgent note in the young man's voice. He was going back to London to-day. His leave, prolonged on the plea of "urgent private affairs," was over.

The Duchess looked at him—a long, steady, half-sad look.

"Yes," she said deliberately, "I do like her, and I have made real friends with her, Robin."

"She already cares for you so much," he went on. "Sometimes," and then lightly, but with a grave undercurrent to his words, he went on, "I feel, mother, as if she loves you even more than she loves me"

"That's nonsense, of course!" she said fondly. "I think she's proud and shy— very good things for a girl to be in these days, my darling boy. But of course I feel I want people to know of your engagement, now that it's really settled. And equally, of course, I long to meet her parents."

"I don't think you'll like her mother," he muttered. Then suddenly he exclaimed: "I used to long to say to the old girl, 'Don't worry—I'm quite as anxious to be caught as you are to catch me!'"

"Robin! How—how horrid!"

"Forgive me, mother. I'll never call Mrs. Shellbridge that again—even to myself. But, well—I don't wonder the poor darling shrinks from the thought of her mother's indecent joy."

And then the Duchess asked a question that surprised her son. "Have you taken her to see the stone gate?" she asked.

"Not yet—I always think that special view only looks beautiful in good weather. It's just my luck"—he was standing by the window, drumming his fingers on the panes—"that just as I'm going away we're going to have a really splendid day at last! If it's fine, you take her there, mother."

"I will," said the Duchess in a low tone.

He looked at his watch. "I must be off now—I'll go and say good-bye to her!"

But the Duchess was not surprised to hear at lunch, in answer to the question, "Did you see Robin before he left this morning, my dear?" the quick reply, "No, for I was up in my room, writing letters."

Now up to that moment the Duchess had been uncertain as to how she would spend the early afternoon; but the answer of Lord Ardvilly's fiancée made up her mind for her.

"I wonder if you'd care to go for a real walk with me to-day, Irene?—right through the park and out on to the downs? Now that we have a good day, I'd like to show you something of the country."

And eagerly—for she was curiously bright and cheerful now that the young man she had promised to marry had left the castle—Irene Shellbridge answered, "I should love that!"

And now, an hour later, the two were approaching the high arch of the stone gate. The Duchess had driven through the gate two or three times this autumn. But this was the first time she had walked there since she had witnessed that piteous parting, a little over three months ago, on the day when she had first heard the name of this girl now walking by her side and looking, oh! so lovely, in her thick woollen coat and tiny pull-on cap.

Suddenly the Duchess felt what she had hardly ever felt in her now long life—that was, ashamed; for what she had made up her mind to do was far from kind to the girl who was now looking down into her face with so eager, even so loving, a glance.

It was one of those winter days which are a glorious herald of spring. Light white clouds scudded across the pale-blue sky, as if playing hide-and-seek with the sun.

The Duchess stayed her steps, and together they looked up at and through the high stone arch. Glancing nervously at her companion, the older woman saw, relieved, that the sight of the arch awoke no memory. Was it conceivable that, by one of those coincidences that occur only in real life, the girl she had seen sobbing in a man's arms on just the other side of this arch was and would ever remain a stranger who, by some odd chance, had possessed the same individual and really peculiar sports-frock as her present companion? She now hoped so, with all her heart.

Feeling suddenly, agonisingly, afraid, she forced herself to walk on; and then, as they passed out on to the lonely stretch of downland she saw, with a sharp pang of pain, that her suspicion, nay, her belief, was justified. Under her rouge and paint Irene Shellbridge had turned ashy pale, and she was now gazing, with a fixed look of startled fear, at the place where, three months ago, she had stood clasped to the heart of the man she had then loved.

The Duchess felt a rush of tears well up into her eyes. There was something rigid, defiant, about the young tense figure by her side. Taking Irene's hand, the lovely hand which in a few days from now would be adorned with the superb emerald they had all chosen together yesterday—only yesterday—she said quietly, "Irene, my dear?"

The girl started; then she turned, and tried to smile.

They walked on a few steps in silence. All at once Puck gave a loud bark and made a futile rush at a great sea-bird which had flown thus far inland. And then the Duchess saw that her companion also remembered even the futile foolish bark of the little dog....

That, somehow, made it easier for her to be now what she was by instinct, that is, absolutely honest.

"When I saw you a little over a week ago," she said in a low, trembling voice, "I told you, Irene, that I had never seen you before, and I thought I spoke the truth. But yesterday, when you came down in that pretty sports-frock Robin so much admired, I knew that I had seen you before."

The white-faced girl stared at her, surprised.

"Do you remember standing over there, under that tree—there were leaves on it then—with a friend, one day in October, when you were staying at Chillingworth Place? A dog rushed through the arch and barked, and the owner of the dog, a woman, followed him. I was that woman, Irene. I did not wish to spy, but I could not but see you both—and I heard enough to know that you and the man with you had been, even if you were no longer, lovers. You may have forgotten, but I remember that you wore the same frock, then, as you wore yesterday."

As the girl said nothing, only looked at her with wide-open desolate eyes, the Duchess went on, "Do you love my son now, Irene? Nay, I will not even say do you love Robin, as he loves you, but can you honestly say that you care for him enough to make him a good wife? I think you will agree that he'll never become the type of young man who is content, after awhile, to let his wife go her way, while he goes his. He's not a bit clever, but he's no fool. You won't be able to take him in."

She almost added the words, "You don't really take him in now." Instead, she said, "If after you are married you don't care about him, he'll be most frightfully unhappy."

At last Irene Shellbridge spoke. "Are you going to tell him what you saw—that time?"

"No, Irene, I shall never tell him that. And if you can assure me, here and now, that the other man has gone entirely out of your life—then I will put right behind me what I saw that day, and I will never think of it again."

And then it was as if a stone statue came to life, for the tears began running slowly down the unhappy girl's face.

"Come, my dear, tell me that you love him! He is worthy of your love"

The other shook her head. "No," she said despairingly. "I don't love Robin. He's so good that I really thought I"

She stopped abruptly.

"—could take him in? You're wrong there! He's not so good—and you're not so bad—as to make that possible, my dear."

And then the two exchanged a strange understanding glance.

Irene went on quickly, drawing convulsive breaths: "I don't forget Jack Munstead. Duchess!—I can't forget him. He's loved me ever since I was only seventeen—before I became 'the beautiful Irene Shellbridge.' And I—I loved him back with all what heart I have."

"Why didn't you marry him?"

"There seemed a thousand reasons—though he didn't think so. He came into a little bit of money when he was twenty-five, and because of me he got into the set—that stupid, mindless set in which I've now been for three years. Also because of me he spent all he'd got, and more. But this summer one of his uncles gave him some land in Kenya"

"Is he there now?" asked the Duchess quickly.

Irene became as red as a moment ago she had been pale.

"No, he's not there now. He went out there last November; but he felt as if he couldn't stand it without me—so he came home."

"I can't help thinking that you have seen Mr. Munstead since you came here," said the Duchess slowly.

The girl covered her face with her hands. "How did you guess?" she asked in a stifled voice. "For it's true—horribly true! But I suppose you won't believe me when I tell you I've been through agonies of shame these last few days. Yesterday I nearly went away with him to get married. But after all the wonderful kindness you've shown me, I felt I couldn't do anything so cruel"

"Less cruel than what you have done, my child."

There was a long pause between the two. Irene Shellbridge was gazing unseeingly, with despairing eyes, over the great expanse of land and sky about them. As for the Duchess, she was saying to herself in an agony, "Robin—Robin—Robin! What can I do to break the fall to my boy."

"I suppose," she said at last, "that Mr. Munstead is staying at the Ardvilly Arms?" (Oh, the irony of that thought!)

Irene Shellbridge nodded.

"But you have not actually met there?"

There was an urgent, anxious note in the Duchess's voice. She knew that what the castle knew the town knew, and, as often as not, at one and the same moment.

"We have always met outside the town, down by the river," said the girl in a stifled voice. Then she cried, "But, oh! do believe me when I tell you that I had made up my mind to speak to you before I left! I had come to know I could never marry Robin—that was the real reason why I was determined to say nothing to my mother."

She covered her face with her hands. "Now that you know everything, I feel as if I would rather go away as soon as possible. Would you mind my leaving to-day?"

"I think that would be best. The second post will have come in when we get back, and you can say you have had to return to town a day earlier. I will make it right with everybody, and—and, Irene, if I were you, I should telephone to Mr. Munstead, and tell him that you are going away to-night. If, as I suppose, he was travelling with you to-morrow, he may as well do so this evening."

Late that same afternoon the Duchess stood waiting for the girl whom in this last week she had, in a queer kind of way, come to love, and whom, even now, she could not find it in her heart to hate.

At last Irene glided in, and again, in the thick pale grey frock in which she had arrived, she looked like a wraith.

"I have come to say good-bye, and to ask you, if you can, to forgive me for all the pain I've given you, and am going to give Robin—dear, dear Robin. I know I'm giving up the good for the bad, but—I think you know that I can't help myself," she ended on a despairing note.

"There's one thing," said the Duchess, "that I want you to tell me, Irene. Have you made any definite plans as to your future?"

"We are going to be married to-morrow morning."

And when she saw the look of surprise on the other's face, Irene Shellbridge smiled a wan smile. "Jack got a Special Licence before he came down here."

"Then I suppose—I hope—you will go out with him to Kenya?"

Oh! the relief of that thought—coupled with a feeling that it justified something most people would have thought very, very foolish that she had just done!

"That's what he'd like me to do. But I doubt if we'd even be able to scrape up enough money for our fares just now. However, father, who is far kinder than mother, may help us. It would be much the most sensible thing to do."

And then, suddenly, she threw herself into the Duchess's arms.

"I dare say you won't believe me," she sobbed, "but though of course I am not such a fool as not to know all I'm giving up, what I'm really sorry for is—is the thought that I shall never see you again."

The Duchess felt touched. Her heart had become much lighter in the last few moments, and deep in that same kind heart she knew that what the girl said was true.

Gently she disengaged herself from the clinging arms.

"I've learnt to love you, my dear. I even still feel, in spite of all that has happened, as if you had become, in a sort of way, a child of mine."

She waited a moment, then added: "It is to that child of mine that I am giving what is in this envelope, as a wedding gift."

She opened the girl's originally elegant now shabby hand-bag, and slipped something into it.

Irene Shellbridge felt at once surprised and distressed. She realised that in that envelope there was a cheque—probably for a hundred pounds—and that it would be ungracious for her to refuse a gift so kindly and so delicately tendered.

"And now," the Duchess said, "I think we ought to be going, for I heard the car come round. I'm coming to London, too. I'm sure you will understand why." She looked fixedly at the girl. "But I won't tell Robin my bad news till I've heard from you, either by note or telephone, that you are another man's wife."

On their way to the station Irene Shellbridge asked nervously, "May I introduce Jack to you. Duchess, or would you rather that I didn't? Of course, he only thinks that I was here on an ordinary visit."

The other. hesitated. "Yes, do introduce him to me," she said at last. "And I will wish him joy; but I won't travel up in the same carriage." With quivering lips she added, "After, all, my dear, I'm old-fashioned enough to believe that 'love is still the lord of all'..."

At Victoria Station she caught sight for a moment of the two young people. It hurt her to see in both their faces that moving expression which betokens the happiness of young love. And that look of joy and of serenity also told the Duchess, who saw life as it is, and not as sentimentalists would like it to be, that Irene had opened her envelope, and found that it contained a cheque for five thousand pounds.

.