The bride and bridegroom, each feeling more than a little shy, had enjoyed their late luncheon, the first they had ever taken alone together. And Major Guthrie had been perhaps rather absurdly touched to learn, from a word dropped by Howse, that the new mistress had herself carefully arranged that this first meal should consist of dishes which Howse had told her his master particularly liked. And as they sat there, side by side, in their pleasant dining-room--for he had not cared to take the head of the table--the bridegroom hoped his bride would never know that since his blindness he had retained very little sense of taste.

After luncheon they had gone out into the garden, and she had guided his footsteps along every once familiar path. Considering how long he had been away, everything was in very fair order, and she was surprised to find how keen he was about everything. He seemed to know every shrub and plant there, and she felt as if in that hour he taught her more of practical gardening than she had ever known.

And then, at last, they made their way to the avenue which was the chief glory of the domain, and which had certainly been there in the days when the house had stood in a park, before the village of which it was the Manor had grown to be something like a suburb of Witanbury.

There they had paced up and down, talking of many things; and it was he who, suggesting that she must be tired, at last made her sit down on the broad wooden bench, from where she could see without being seen the long, low house and wide lawn.

They both, in their very different ways, felt exquisitely at peace. To his proud, reticent nature, the last few days had proved disagreeable--sometimes acutely unpleasant. He had felt grateful for, but he had not enjoyed, the marks of sympathy which had been so freely lavished on him and on his companions in Holland, on the boat, and since his landing in England.

In those old days which now seemed to have belonged to another existence, Major Guthrie had thought his friend, Mrs. Otway, if wonderfully kind, not always very tactful. It is a mistake to think that love is blind as to those matters. But of all the kind women he had seen since he had left Germany, she was the only one who had not spoken to him of his blindness, who had made no allusion to it, and who had not pressed on him painful, unsought sympathy. From the moment they had been left alone for a little while in that unknown London house, where he had first been taken, she had made him feel that he was indeed the natural protector and helper of the woman he loved; and of the things she had said to him, in those first moments of emotion, what had touched and pleased him most was her artless cry, "Oh, you don't know how I have missed you! Even quite at first I felt so miserable without you!"

It was Rose who had suggested an immediate marriage; Rose who had--well, yes, there was no other word for it--coaxed them both into realizing that it was the only thing to do.

Even now, on this their wedding day, they felt awkward, and yes, very shy the one with the other. And as he sat there by her side, wearing a rough grey suit he had often worn last winter when calling on her in the Trellis House, her cheeks grew hot when she remembered the letter she had written to him. Perhaps he had thought it an absurdly sentimental letter for a woman of her age to write.

The only thing that rea.s.sured her was the fact that once, at luncheon, he had clasped her hand under the table; but the door had opened, and quickly he had taken his hand away, and even moved his chair a little farther off. It was true that Howse had put the chairs very close together.

Now she was telling him of all that had happened since he had gone away, and he was listening with the eager sympathy and interest he had always shown her, that no one else had ever shown her in the same degree, in those days that now seemed so long ago, before the War.

So she went on, pouring it all out to him, till she came to the amazing story of her daughter Rose, and of Jervis Blake. She described the strange, moving little marriage ceremony; and the man sitting by her side sought and found the soft hand which was very close to his, and said feelingly, "That must have been very trying for _you_."

Yes, it had been trying for her, though no one had seemed to think so at the time. But he, the speaker of these kind understanding words, had always known how she felt, and sympathised with her.

She wished he would call her "Mary"--if only he would begin, she would soon find it quite easy to call him "Alick...."

Suddenly there came on his sightless face a slight change. He had heard something which her duller ears had failed to hear.

"What's that?" he asked uneasily.

"It's only a motor-car coming round to the front door. I hope they will send whoever it is away," the colour rushed into her face.

"Oh, surely Howse will do that to-day----"

And then she saw the man-servant come out of the house and advance towards them. There was a salver in his hand, and on the salver a note.

"The gentleman who brought this is waiting, ma'am, to see you."

She took up the envelope and glanced down at it. Her new name looked so odd in Dr. Haworth's familiar writing--it evoked a woman who had been so very different from herself, and yet for whom she now felt a curious kind of retrospective tenderness.

She opened the note with curiosity.

"DEAR MRS. GUTHRIE,

"The bearer of this, Mr. Reynolds of the Home Office, will explain to you why we are anxious that you should come into Witanbury for an hour this afternoon. I am sure Major Guthrie would willingly spare you if he knew how very important and how delicate is the business in question. Please tell him that we will keep you as short a time as possible. In fact, it is quite probable that you will be back within an hour.

"Very truly yours,

"EDMUND HAWORTH."

She looked down at the letter with feelings of surprise and of annoyance. Uncaring of Howse's discreet presence, she read it aloud.

"It's very mysterious and queer, isn't it? But I'm afraid I shall have to go."

"Yes, of course you will. It would have been better under the circ.u.mstances for the Dean to have told you what they want to see you about."

In the old days, Major Guthrie had never shared Mrs. Otway's admiration for Dr. Haworth, and now he felt rather sharply disturbed. The Home Office? The words bore a more ominous sound to him than they did, fortunately, to her. Was it possible that she had been communicating, in secret, with some of her German friends? He rose from the bench on which they had been sitting: "Is the gentleman in the motor, Howse?"

"Yes, sir. He wouldn't come in."

"Go and tell him that we are coming at once."

And then, after a moment, he said quietly, "I'm coming, too."

"Oh, but----" she exclaimed.

"I don't choose to have my wife's presence commanded by the Dean of Witanbury, or even, if it comes to that, by the Home Office."

She seized his arm, and pressed close to him. "I do believe," she cried, "that you suspect me of having got into a sc.r.a.pe! Indeed, indeed I have done nothing!" She was smiling, though moved almost to tears by the way he had just spoken. It was a new thing to her to be taken care of, to feel that there was someone ready, aye, determined, to protect her, and take her part. Also, it was the first time he had called her his wife.

A few minutes later they were sitting side by side in a large, open motor-car. Mr. Reynolds was a pleasant, good-looking man of about thirty, and he had insisted on giving up his seat to Major Guthrie.

There would have been plenty of room for the three of them leaning back, but he had preferred to sit opposite to them, and now he was looking, with a good deal of sympathy, interest, and respect at the blind soldier, and with equal interest, but with less liking and respect, at Major Guthrie's wife.

Mr. Reynolds disliked pro-Germans and spy-maniacs with almost equal fervour; his work brought him in contact with both. From what he had been able to learn, the lady sitting opposite to him was to be numbered among the first category.

"And now," said Major Guthrie, leaning his sightless face forward, "will you kindly inform me for what reason my wife has been summoned to Witanbury this afternoon? The Dean's letter--I do not know if you have read it--is expressed in rather mysterious and alarming language."

The man he addressed waited for a moment. He knew that the two people before him had only been married that morning.

"Yes, that is so," he said frankly. "I suppose the Dean thought it best that I should inform Mrs. Guthrie of the business which brought me to Witanbury three hours ago. It chanced that I was in the neighbourhood, so when the Witanbury police telephoned to London, I, being known to be close here, was asked to go over."

"The police?" repeated both his hearers together.

"Yes, for I'm sorry to tell you"--he looked searchingly at the lady as he spoke--"I'm sorry to tell you, Mrs. Guthrie, that a considerable number of bombs have been found in your house. I believe it to be the fact that you hold the lease of the Trellis House in Witanbury Close?"

She looked at him too much surprised and too much bewildered to speak.

Then, "Bombs?" she echoed incredulously. "There must be some mistake!

There has never been any gunpowder in my possession. I might almost go so far as to say that I have never seen a gun or a pistol at close quarters----"

She felt a hand groping towards her, and at last find and cover in a tight grip her fingers. "You do not fire bombs from a gun or from a pistol, my dearest." There was a great tenderness in Major Guthrie's voice.

Even in the midst of her surprise and disarray at the extraordinary thing she had just heard, Mrs. Guthrie blushed so deeply that Mr.

Reynolds noticed it, and felt rather puzzled. He told himself that she was a younger woman than he had at first taken her to be.

In a very different tone Major Guthrie next addressed the man he knew to be sitting opposite to him: "May I ask how and where and when bombs were found in the Trellis House?" To himself he was saying, with anguished iteration, "Oh, G.o.d, if only I could see! Oh, G.o.d, if only I could see!"

But he spoke, if sternly, yet in a quiet, courteous tone, his hand still clasping closely that of his wife.