"I've given them a rare fright if nothing else. She went off stiff at sight of me, and he--egad! the little fair-haired baronet's plucky after all--such a molly-coddle as he used to be. Of course her being my wife's all bosh, but the scare was good fun. And it won't end here--my word for it. He's as jealous as the Grand Turk. I hope Inez will come to see me and give me some money. If she doesn't I must go and see her, that's all."

He was gone--and for a moment silence reigned. Lights burned, flowers bloomed, crystal and silver shone, rare wines and rich fruits glowed.

But a skeleton sat at the feast. Juan Catheron had done many evil deeds in his lifetime, but never a more dastardly deed than to-night.

There was a flash of intolerable triumph in the dark eyes of Inez. She detested her brother, but she could have kissed him now. She had lost all, wealth, position, and the man she loved--this girl with the tangled yellow hair and pink and white face had taken all from her, but even _her_ path was not to be altogether a path of roses.

Ashen pale and with eyes averted, Sir Victor walked back and resumed his seat at the table. Ashen pale, trembling and frightened, Ethel sat where he had placed her. And no one spoke--what was there to be said?

It was a fortunate thing that just at this juncture baby should see fit to wake and set up a dismal cry, so shrill as to penetrate even to the distant dinner-room. Lady Catheron rose to her feet, uttered a hasty and incoherent apology, and ran from the room.

She did not return. Peace reigned, the infant heir of the Catherons was soothed, but his mamma went downstairs no more that night. She lingered in the nursery for over an hour. Somehow by her baby's side she felt a sense of peace and safety. She dreaded to meet her husband.

What must he think of her? She had stooped to concealment, to falsehood--would he ever love her or trust her again?

She went at last to her rooms. On the dressing-table waxlights burned, but the bedroom was unlit. She seated herself by the window and looked out at the starlit sky, at the darkly-waving trees of the park. "And this is my welcome home," she thought, "to find in my husband's house my rival and enemy, whose first look, whose first words are insults. She is mistress here, not I. And that fatal folly of my childhood come back. That horrible man!" She shuddered as she sat alone. "Ah, why did I not tell, why did mamma beg me to hide it from him? She was so afraid he would have gone--so afraid her daughter would miss a baronet, and I--I was weak and a coward. No, it is all over--he will never care for me, never trust me again."

He came in as she sat there, mournful and alone. In the dusk of the chamber the little half-hidden white figure caught his eye, the golden hair glimmering through the dusk.

"Ethel," he said, "is that window open? Come away immediately--you will take cold in the draught."

He spoke gently but very coldly as he had never spoken to her before.

She turned to him with a great sob.

"Oh, Victor, forgive me!" she said.

He was silent for a moment. He loved her with a great and pa.s.sionate love; to see her weep was torture, to see her suffer, misery. She had never been dearer than in this hour. Still he stood aloof, torn by doubt, racked by jealousy.

"Ethel," he cried out, "_why_ did you deceive me? I thought--I could have sworn you were all truth and innocence, stainless as a lily, white as an angel. And to think that another man--and of all men Juan Catheron. No. I can't even think of it--it is enough to drive me mad!"

She fell down on her knees before him and held up her clasped hands.

There was a little sob, and her head lay on his shoulder.

"I tried to once or twice--I did indeed, but you know what a coward I am. And mamma forbade my telling--that is the truth. She said I had been a little fool--that was all over and done with--no need to be a great fool, telling my own folly. And after we were married, and I saw you jealous of every man I looked at--you know you were, sir!--I was more scared than ever. I thought Juan Catheron was dead. I never wrote to him. I had returned all his letters. I thought I had destroyed his picture; I never knew that I had done so very wrong in knowing him at all, until that day in Russell Square. But Victor--husband--only forgive me this once, and I'll never, never have a secret from you again as long as I live."

She was little better than a child still--this pretty youthful matron and mother. And with the sweet, pleading face uplifted, the big blue eyes swimming in tears, the quivering lips, the pathetic voice, he did what _you_, sir, would have done in his place--kissed and forgave her.

CHAPTER V.

IN THE TWILIGHT.

"No words can be strong enough to reprehend your conduct, Victor. You have acted disgracefully; you are listening, sir,--disgracefully, I say, to your cousin Inez. And you are the first of your line who has blurred the family escutcheon. Dukes' daughters have entered Catheron Royals as brides. It was left for you to wed a soap-boiler's daughter!"

Thus Lady Helena Powyss, of Powyss Place, to her nephew, Sir Victor Catheron, just one fortnight after that memorable night of his wife and heir's coming home. The young man stood listening in sullen anger, the red blood mounting to his very temples. His Cousin Inez had managed during the past two weeks to make his existence as thoroughly uncomfortable as a thoroughly jealous and spiteful woman can. He had flown at last to his aunt for comfort, and this is how he got it.

"Lady Helena," he burst forth, "this is too much! Not even from you will I bear it. A soap-boiler's daughter my wife may be--it is the only charge that can be brought against her. I have married to please myself, and it _does_ please me enormously. Inez, confound her!

badgers me enough. I didn't expect, Aunt Helena, to be badgered by you."

"I have no wish to badger you. I bring no charge against your wife. I have seen her but once, and personally I like her excessively. I believe her to be as good as she is pretty. But again _your_ conduct I do and will protest. You have cruelly, shamefully wronged your cousin--humiliated her beyond all telling. I can only wonder--yes, Victor, wonder--that with her fiery nature she takes it as quietly as she does."

"As quietly as she does! Good Heavens!" burst forth this "badgered"

baronet. "You should live in the same house with her to find out how quietly she takes it. Women understand how to torture--they should have been grand inquisitors of a Spanish inquisition, if such a thing ever existed. I am afraid to face her. She stabs my wife in fifty different ways fifty times a day, and I--my guilty conscience won't let me silence her. Ethel has not known a happy hour since she entered Catheron Royals, and all through her infernal serpent tongue. Let her take care--if she were ten times my cousin, even she may go one step too far."

"Does that mean, Victor, you will turn her from Catheron Royals?"

"It means that, if you like. Inez is my cousin, Ethel is my wife. You are her friend, Aunt Helena; you will be doing a friendly action if you drop her a hint. I wish you good-morning."

He took his hat and turned to go, his handsome blonde face sullen and set.

"Very well," Lady Helena answered; "I will. You are to blame--not that poor fair-haired child. I will speak to Inez; and, Victor, I will try to forgive you for your mother's sake. Though you broke her heart she would have forgiven you. I will try to do as she would have done--and I like the little thing. You will not fail me on Thursday next? If _I_ take up your wife all the neighborhood will, you may depend."

"We are not likely to fail. The invitation is like your kindness, Aunt Helena. Thanks very much!"

His short-lived anger died away; he gave his hand frankly to his aunt.

She was his wife's friend--the only one who had taken the slightest notice of her since her arrival. For the resident gentry had decided that they couldn't--really couldn't--call upon the soap-boiler's daughter.

Sir Victor Catheron had shocked and scandalized his order as it had not been shocked and scandalized for half a century. A banker's daughter, a brewer's daughter, they were prepared to accept--banking and brewing are genteel sort of things. But a soap-boiler!--and married in secret!--and a baby born in lodgings!--and Miss Catheron jilted in cold blood!--Oh it was shameful!--shameful! No, they could not call upon the new Lady Catheron--well, at least until they saw whether the Lady Helena Powyss meant to take her up.

Lady Helena was the only sister of the young baronet's late mother, with no children of her own, and very strongly attached to both Sir Victor and Inez. His mother's dying desire had been that he should marry his cousin. He had promised, and Lady Helena's strongest hope in life had been to see that promise fulfilled. The news of his low marriage fell upon her like a thunderbolt. She was the proudest of dowagers--when had a Catheron made a _mesalliance_ before? No; she could not forgive him--could never receive his wife.

But when he came to her, pale, sad, appealing for pardon, she relented.

It was a very tender and womanly heart, despite its pride of birth, that beat in Lady Helena's bosom; and jolly Squire Powyss, who had seen the little wife at the Royals, took sides with his nephew.

"It's done, and can't be undone, my dear," the squire said, philosophically; "and it's always wise to make the best of a bad bargain; and 'pon my life, my love, it's the sweetest little face the sun ever shone on! Gad! I'd have done it myself. Forgive him, my dear--boys will be boys--and go and see his wife."

Lady Helena yielded--love for her boy stronger than pride or anger.

She went; and there came into one of the dusk drawing-rooms of the Royals, a little white vision, with fair, floating hair, and pathetic blue eyes--a little creature, so like a child, that the tender, motherly heart of the great lady went out to her at once.

"You pretty little thing!" she said, taking her in her arms and kissing her as though she had been eight rather than eighteen. "You're nothing but a baby yourself and you have got a baby they tell me. Take me to see him, my dear."

They were friends from that hour. Ethel, with grateful tears in her eyes, led her up to the dainty berceaunette where the heir of Catheron Royals slept, and as she kissed his velvet cheek and looked pityingly from babe to mother, the last remains of anger died out of her heart.

Lady Helena Powyss would "take Lady Catheron up."

"She's pretty, and gentle, and good, and a lady if ever I saw one,"

she said to Inez Catheron; "and she doesn't look too happy. Don't be too hard on her, my dear--it isn't her fault. Victor is to blame. No one feels that more than I. But not that blue-eyed child--try to forgive her Inez, my love. A little kindness will go a long way there."

Inez Catheron sitting in the sunlit window of her own luxurious room, turned her face from the rosy sunset sky full upon her aunt.

"I know what I owe my cousin Victor and his wife," she answered steadily, "and one day I shall pay my debt."

The large, l.u.s.trous Spanish eyes turned once more to the crimson light in the western sky. Some of that lurid splendor lit her dark, colorless face with a vivid glow. Lady Helena looked at her uneasily--there was a depth here she could not fathom. Was Inez "taking it quietly" after all?

"I--I don't ask you to forgive _him_, my dear," she said, nervously--"at least, just yet. I don't think I could do it myself.

And of course you can't be expected to feel very kindly to her who has usurped your place. But I would let her alone if I were you. Victor is master here, and his wife must be mistress, and naturally he doesn't like it. You might go too far, and then--"

"He might turn me out of Catheron Royals--is that what you are trying to say, Aunt Helena?"