CHAPTER XVII.

Five months have passed by and Autumn is once more with us; the trees are decked in their brilliant clothing, before they are left bare and brown, giving a final flash, as a candle does before the flame disappears and leaves only the thin dark wick, as a sort of reminder of what once has been. Every night we hear the shrill evening call of the pheasants, they are becoming quite tame, and strut proudly across the lawn as though they knew there was no likelihood of their being shot, for from that night, five months ago, when after Richard's return from Lord Dilke's yachting excursion, he had gone for a stroll in the shrubberies, I have never seen him. How can I write it? how tell that my husband has left his baby and me and gone with Gladys Thornhill, where, I cannot say, for no one knows. Our enquiries have been all in vain. They planned their actions cleverly and outwitted us all. Only Jack Morris, Miss Thornhill's gardener, saw them pass by his cottage about ten that night, as he was locking

his door for the night. Sometimes the thought strikes me that he seems to know more than he cares to tell. But how can he? for Gladys, like my husband, seldom if ever spoke to servants. It can only be my imagination, for one is often given to doubts at such times that would never enter one's head at any other time.

Baby has grown such a beauty and is the pride of the village. She comes home with her perambulator laden with bunches of flowers given her by her numerous friends.

These five months would have been very dull had it not been for the Champneys, for since Richard left us no one has called, and I really have not felt in the spirits for company, had any one felt charitable enough to remember it was I who was sinned against, not I who was the sinner.

I often wonder where he can be, and if he is happy at last, and if they hit it off together. Then comes a sadder thought still, how shall I be able to shield baby from the unpleasant questions with regard to her father, she is sure to be called upon to suffer? Her father she cannot

remember, of whom I can tell her no good thing but simply shield her, if possible, from the evil which all will be so glad to tell her of. Oh! Father, so this is what you sold me for, this is the end for which you made me sacrifice my happiness and Jack's, to be a husbandless wife yet not a widow, to have a fatherless child yet not an orphan!

Poor Vita has also had her trouble during the past few months, for, four months ago Geoffrey was thrown from his horse, and has been unable to walk since, unless with help; but, as I said before, she had been amply rewarded, for he loves her with all his heart and bears his affliction well.

I have not heard from India for three months, and Jack said in his last he should not think of coming home until something had been heard of Richard. We can none of us understand how they are living for no cheque has been presented to any bank in either of their names. They seemed suddenly to have gone from the midst of us; and we do not care to talk much about them, because of public scandal.

So the empty weeks go past, their very monotony seeming to make the days go quicker; but they would indeed be dull without baby and the Champneys, so I have several things to be thankful for.

Christmas is once more upon us, and Freddy Colvin and Walter Bray are spending it at Fernside, for Vita laughingly says she has three big babies, her husband making the third. No little one has come to make their happiness complete, and although she never murmurs, I often see Vita looking longingly at my little treasure, as though she could steal her from me.

It is another real Christmas-day. I must be getting ready for church for I hear the bells ringing in the distance. Once more we hear the birthday service and again sing the Christmas hymns, when, in looking round the church, I discover that Vita is not there; so I suppose she is keeping Geoff company, and think no more about her absence, especially as neither Freddy nor Walter mention anything about her remaining at home.

"Good morning! Lady Elston," both exclaim.

"What a glorious morning," continues Freddy, "it makes one feel quite young again, in fact, I should dearly have loved a snow-ball match with Walter, if he were not such an old sober sides." And he looks at his boy with pride.

Walter has always been strangely quiet since that night at Monte Carlo, as though he could never forget how nearly he had thrown away God's greatest blessing-life. He is at college now working very hard, and pleasing all. He is going to be a clergyman, much to the delight of his old mother.

"Are they all well at Fernside?" I ask.

"Yes, quite; and Vita told me to bring you to her as quickly as possible, so I promised to carry that tiny madam of yours myself to Fernside, that is to say, if Walter will allow me to have the honour for once; for he always appropriates her." Walter is baby's quiet but devoted slave, and she crows with delight as he throws her up in his strong arms.

But here we are, and baby ready. Freddy races up to nurse, who is standing on the top

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