In these days unless adventures take the disagreeable form of accidents, nothing is likely to arise in a journey between the north of Scotland and the south of England to mar the serenity of one's temper.

Grace, carefully cherished all the way, travelled with supreme satisfaction. She saw in the distance, not very far off, happiness for Margaret. She grew more fond of her husband each day, in return for the affection he lavished upon her, and she had none of the anxieties to which she had once been no stranger.

There was but one cloud upon the horizon, and the one drawback to her perfect happiness lay in that fact. If it grew larger it might mar her happiness to a certain extent, and the fear that it might do so troubled her when she remembered it.

It may be recollected that neither Margaret or herself had conceived a very high opinion of Mr. Paul Lyons on first acquaintance; indeed, Margaret had had a good deal to do to bring herself to think happily about his being Grace's husband; then, on further acquaintance, she grew not only to like him but to recognise that there was much merit in the young man, and she was thankful her sister had fallen into such excellent and kindly hands.

Grace had been won by his affection for herself, and by the amount of admiration she inspired, but she did not take a very high view of his character, and that fact did not trouble her in the least. She always took exception to her sister's ideas as "high-flown," and, if she had been asked, would have answered that her husband aspired to nothing very great in the way of intellect or sentiment, but that he had quite enough for this work-a-day world, and more than enough for her. It was a daily surprise to her, therefore, to find that, even in little things, her husband had a very much higher standard than she had. This discovery was startling; she felt she must take care lest she forfeited his good opinion. Then one day he was talking about Margaret, and of her having divested herself of every farthing of her husband's money, and Grace laughed a little about it. She was astonished at the view he took of it; he was quite vehement about it.

"I cannot see it in your way," Grace had said. "It seems to me that, as poor Margaret married the man, she had every right to whatever he chose to leave her."

"I am sorry to hear you say that, even in fun (I know you are not in earnest). I should never have been able to think of Margaret in the same way if she had acted differently."

"But, Paul, why? Margaret suffered horribly and behaved like an angel. Why should she not reap any benefit?"

"It is not a thing to argue about, it is a thing one feels," he answered; "and I am quite grieved, darling, that you should pretend to think differently." This was pleasant; then Paul went on, "I cannot myself fathom her motives: but the way I read the story of her life is, that she was, for some reason, anxious to make a home for you—so you have told me—rushed into the scrape, and has repented ever since. Girls are so curious. I suppose she had the independence you have; so where the good of it all was I cannot see. Then, when she found what she had done, her better, higher nature prevailed, and she gave the money away."

"You really think it wrong to benefit in any way by that man's money?" asked Grace, horribly conscious, and feeling most uncomfortable; "supposing, Paul—only supposing—I had benefitted, would you have blamed me?"

"Do not put such absurd questions," he answered, sharply; "it is not the least like you to have done such a thing. Can you not see that, in one sense, in a sort of way, it is almost like blood-money? Imagine being the better for anything of the kind! I believe the money would bring a curse and not a blessing!"

Grace felt an acute and miserable pang of self-reproach; she was afraid now that her husband might find out, and she knew that the loss of his esteem would be terrible to her. He and Margaret thought so much alike; what could she do?

His appointment was worth a few hundreds a year, and the six hundred a year she had was counted in arranging their expenses.

Whenever the future was talked of, this miserable idea haunted her. When Paul advised her to get something, whenever money was in question, there was this one constant weight upon her mind, and the strange thing to herself was, that now she began to see a little as he did, and she could not now understand how she had reconciled herself to accepting it, how she could have claimed her right to this money so complacently.

Paul had proposed to her, thinking her penniless, and the small fortune had been a joyful surprise. How she wished now that she had never had anything to do with it!

But she could not see her way out of it. She knew that, if she spoke to Margaret, Margaret would do without things and help her, but for that very reason she could not speak to her.

Paul saw that his wife was not quite so bright as usual, but he thought she was tired, and was full of affectionate solicitude. Every attention he paid her, every kind word he uttered, gave her an additional pang.

They slept two nights on the journey, as Grace had always to be careful, and within an hour of London Mr. Stevens got into the carriage.

Grace saw him enter with some misgiving. The horrible thought occurred to her that perhaps he might refer in some way to investments or something that might lead her husband to make inquiry. She could only answer by speaking the truth. To her immense relief Paul said, "As you have some one to talk to now I will go and smoke," and so saying he left her with Mr. Stevens.

Grace felt now or never was her opportunity. Before Mr. Stevens could look round she poured out her trouble with a rapidity and vehemence that astonished him. When he, at length understood, he entered very fully into it all.

"Your husband is quite right; I should have the same feeling about it," he said.

"That makes it worse for me," said Grace, colouring, "but perhaps you have never had my temptation; you were never dependent upon others—very nearly penniless."

"Penniless, yes! Dependent, no!" he answered, "since I could work for my living."

"Mr. Sandford ruled my fate and Margaret's," answered Grace, "and that was never thought of; but I wish—oh! how I wish—I knew what to do. Would he help me?"

"Mr. Sandford is the one person who could help you," said Mr. Stevens; "a frank appeal to him might be productive of much good, and my advice to you is not to hide your trouble from your husband; let him know it; the fewer secrets between married people the less likely they are ever to disagree."

"I will tell him some day," answered Grace, "but I have behaved very badly to Mr. Sandford—he has no reason to love me."

"He is a man who has much to contend against, but he is a generous man. He never grudges money, and he can but say he can do nothing. I hope you left all well at Inchbrae," he said, with a resolute turning away from the subject.

"'All' consisting of Mrs. Dorriman and my sister," laughed Grace, rallying the moment her trouble was put out of sight.

"Ah! I am going there next week to meet Mr. Sandford; there is still something to be arranged between us."

"Then," asked Grace, "could you not say something for me? Could you not speak to Mr. Sandford for me?"

"I could, certainly, but Mr. Sandford dislikes me, and after all, to speak plain English, Mrs. Lyons, what can he do? There is only one way in which he can help you. If he chooses to pay you your income out of his own pocket, or to pay fifteen thousand pounds to your account. When you talk of help—which is an exceedingly vague word—you should put it in its practical form."

"Then everything is at an end," exclaimed Grace, and she leaned back upon the cushions in despair.

"I do not quite agree with you," he answered, "only I wished you to see the practical side of the question; there is no use in my going to a man like Mr. Sandford and when he puts the question, 'What does she expect me to do?' have nothing to reply on your account."

"I cannot ask him to give me fifteen thousand pounds, it is impossible!" said Grace flushing at the curt tone used by Mr. Stevens.

"You need ask him for nothing; but help in this case means money—as it generally does; leave the sum to him, but you must understand when you use the world 'help' what it does mean. I merely wanted to prepare you for that."

"Thank you," said Grace, whose hopes were now sunk very low indeed.

She sat silent for a few moments, and then, looking up, said, "Supposing you spoke to Mrs. Dorriman, she can say many things to her brother no one else can, and she always understands."

"Yes," said Mr. Stevens in an odd tone, "I agree with you, she does understand most things."

"When do you go there?"

"On Thursday, I hope; and now, Mrs. Lyons, before we part let me know how am I to communicate with you."

"Can you write to me?"

"That is not quite impossible; but if your husband is to know nothing about this it seems to me that my writing to you upon business matters—now he is supposed to know all about your business—may lead to complications."

"You do not understand, Mr. Stevens, he—my husband—never asks any questions. I merely told him I had succeeded to fifteen thousand pounds; he was very much surprised and pleased, I suppose, but there the matter dropped. Mr. Sandford arranged all about the money matters for me, and the money was settled upon me and then upon my husband."

"That complicates matters of course; you have no power to give up money settled upon him; I see no way out of it."

"Do speak to Mrs. Dorriman," pleaded Grace, "she has a great opinion of you, and, if you put the matter before her, something might be done."

"I still advise you to tell your husband," said Mr. Stevens; "remember every day's delay makes confession more difficult afterwards. Then again, does not Lady Lyons know about it?"

"I do not think she does," but as she spoke Grace felt very uncomfortable. She once again entreated Mr. Stevens to speak to Mrs. Dorriman, and as Paul got into the carriage again she could only trust that her persuasion had been successful.

No one, however, can imagine how this dread of discovery weighed upon her. Each time Paul returned, when he had been out alone, her expression, when he appeared, was anxiety—did he know? had anything been said to make him suspicious?

"I am beginning to be afraid you are tired of me," he said one day; "when I come home now you never look the least pleased to see me."

"I am glad, dear; please do not take fancies into your head."

"Well, I wish you showed it a little more; I am longing to get you away—you are much less energetic than you were a little while ago. The way you stick to my mother is very unlike you. I am awfully fond of her, and all that, but I like having you a bit by myself, and her too for that matter."

Grace turned red and white by turns. She knew that she was suffering from irritability produced by anxiety. She was essentially one who could stand neither fatigue of body nor anxiety of mind.

"What can you have to say to your mother that I may not hear?" she asked, with a certain sharpness of tone that surprised him. He looked at her attentively, and that seemed to displease her still more. To his unbounded astonishment she burst out crying, and cried with a sort of miserable, helpless vehemence, that was infinitely distressing to him.

"My darling! can you not tell me what is wrong?" he said, "for there is something wrong, you are not yourself. Who can you turn to if you have any worry or distress so well as to your husband? Have you no confidence in me?"

"Don't," she sobbed, "you only make me worse!"

He was deeply wounded, not so much by her words as by the way she shrank from him.

Lady Lyons made her voice heard in the passage, asking if her son was in, and Grace snatched her hand from Paul, and rushed out of the room by one door as her mother-in-law came in at the other.

Paul was an affectionate son, but at that particular moment he would have preferred to have had time to discover what was the matter with his wife, and he was so absorbed that his mother told him a fact very interesting to her, and which she considered should have been equally interesting to him, without his taking it in.

"My dear Paul," she said at length, "you are not attending to me one bit!"

"I beg your pardon, mother, I think I heard what you said."

"About the doctor, Paul?"

"I think so," he answered, trying to recall her words.

"Well, you see, I shall have to get another that being the case."

"A very good thing, I should say."

"Paul! the death of an eminent medical man is not a subject for rejoicing."

"Oh! he is dead. Who is dead, mother?"

"Dr. Dickson, and you said you heard what I said. Oh! Paul."

"Well, I hear now, and I do not think I ever heard Doctor Dickson's name before."

"After that!" said Lady Lyons, throwing up her hands; "he was the only man—the only man who quite understood my constitution."

"Well, I'm sorry he is dead if he was useful to you, mother, but you have been no better and no worse ever since I can remember anything. Would you mind my leaving you for a moment? I am afraid Grace is not well."

He left her and went to find his wife.

Grace had recovered herself, and reproached him for making "a fuss."

"You know I am not strong," she said, "and easily sent up and down. I am like a shuttlecock, and sometimes, Paul, I feel that we are not as much alike as we thought."

"Now you have hurt and vexed me still more," he said, in a tone of real vexation. "What discoveries will you make next? In what way am I your inferior? I know in many ways I am, but in what particular am I wanting to-day?"

"My inferior!" said Grace, with sudden passion; "I feel beneath you in all things—in principle, in every thing."

She covered her face with her hands.

"I cannot understand you, dear," he said, kindly; "and if you do not wish to tell what all this means leave it alone. But my hope was that you had learned to confide in me, and I am disappointed. My mother is there, do as you like about seeing her. I said you were not well."

"I am all right," she said, throwing off her depression and her penitence at once. "Go to your mother, Paul; I am sorry you said anything about my not being well, it was only a passing indisposition."

He left her not fully satisfied, but knowing it was useless to press her further.

Lady Lyons was overflowing with motherly sympathy, and fussed in a way Grace thought nearly intolerable, and which in days not so very long ago she would have ungraciously put a stop to.

But Paul's mother was to her a different person from the Lady Lyons she had known and laughed at in the old days, and she bore her attentions with all possible patience.

The trio sat down to dinner with those subdued feelings generally indicative of a past storm.

Lady Lyons resented Paul's evident want of interest in her physicians; and Grace was exhausted, and annoyed with herself for having given way as she had done; while Paul, while trying to converse with his mother, was conscious of a painful impression about his wife which he could not shake off.

The atmosphere was therefore not very clear to begin with; and poor Lady Lyons, feeling that subtle constraint that somehow had arisen between husband and wife, threw all at once an explosive just when Grace was least expecting it.

"It will interest you to hear, my dear, that before I came up here I went to see the grave of your little niece. I found it well-cared for, flowers, and all that you know."

"It does not interest me much," answered Grace, very languidly. "I never saw the poor little thing, and everything connected with that time is so hateful to me I never willingly recall it."

"As things are, is that not a little ungrateful, my dear? And he deserves your gratitude—poor Mr. Drayton!"

"What has Grace got to be grateful for to that unhappy man?" asked Paul, with very faint curiosity.

"The money, my dear, the fortune; surely you know?"

"I hold my money from my sister," said Grace, defiantly.

"Ah! but, my dear, if he had not left it to your sister she could not have given it to you!" said Lady Lyons, quite sure now that she had put the case convincingly.

Grace grew as white as marble; she did not dare look at Paul. Rallying all her power, she said—

"It makes a great difference taking money from my sister and taking it from Mr. Drayton."

"I see no difference," said Paul, in a cold hard tone she had not believed him capable of.

"There!" said Lady Lyons. "Paul will perhaps convince you—since that money came to you...."

"Do leave the subject alone, Lady Lyons—it is hateful to me!"

"Why, dear me, my dear, this is only a whim. I am quite sure Paul agrees with me."

"I hate the subject also," said Paul angrily; and poor Lady Lyons, utterly unconscious of how she had managed to make things unpleasant, saw she had done so and began to apologise.

But Paul's expression, the disgust she saw written in his face, was too much for Grace, worn out as she was with the anxiety this very subject had given her, and she rose, tried to move to the door, and fell into her husband's arms in a faint—out of which they found it difficult to rouse her.

Paul was sorry for her and very anxious. He had seen her suffer, but he had never known her faint like this before.

For the moment, and till she recovered, everything was forgotten; but when she came round again Grace saw that she had fallen in her husband's eyes, and cried bitter tears when he turned away.

Yes, she had fallen. How often occasions had arisen when he might have been told the truth! How utterly she had kept him in the dark! He was resentful, and it was not in him to see any circumstances in extenuation. If she thought it right to benefit by this man's money, why not have said so frankly? In any conversation about Margaret, when he had spoken his mind, what was there to prevent her saying what the case was?

Mingled with indignation at the way he had been treated was also the bitter fact that they would be so much poorer than he had imagined, because, of course, the money should go back. It was the price of Margaret's happiness, and he would have none of it.

Lady Lyons, with the best intentions, drove him nearly wild that evening.

It is wonderful what powers of irritation very well-meaning people possess when they are endowed with blunt perceptions and limited intelligence.

Some days passed on. There was constant constraint between the two who, up till now, had been so happy. Then there came the day before they sailed.

Grace was lying back in a chair, looking pale and weary, and her husband was writing.

All at once he looked up and said briefly—

"Grace, that money must be given up."

"Yes," she said, and he thought he heard a little sob.

"How you can care to keep it!" he said, trying to subdue his feelings because she was evidently so unwell.

"I care to keep it! If you only knew how I hate myself for ever having cared! Paul, do you remember your being so violent—speaking so strongly about it. It took away my courage. I could not tell you, and it has been making me so wretched!"

"But why was I kept in the dark about it from the first?" he asked, always trying to control himself. "Why was it talked of as a legacy?"

"There was no reason you should not have known at first. I described it to your mother as a legacy (it was, in the first instance, left to Margaret); it saved explanations, and I did not care for her to know. You never inquired how the money had come to me. If you had asked one direct question, I should have been forced to speak the truth to you."

"I see no difference," he said again.

He was most terribly annoyed; the whole thing was a shock to him, and he was all the more annoyed because he was conscious that the increase to his income had been pleasant, and that it had helped to smooth their path so much.

Without it how could he afford Grace's extravagant habits? He knew that the money coming from his own appointment was not enough, and out of that even he had given his mother something. If he now explained to her how could he explain without hurting his wife and showing that perfect confidence had not existed between them?

In spite of all these considerations he never for one moment thought of retaining the money. To him it was the price of Margaret's happiness, and he now turned over in his mind how he could say something to his mother without entering into details which would be so painful to him.

He turned away once more from his wife, and once again he said, as he had said before,

"The money must go back."

Grace was very miserable. She had learnt to love her husband and to find much to help her in his directness, and a certain strength she had not expected to find in his character. When she had married him she had thought that in all important things she would be the guiding star. He was slow in thought, and she valued her own quickness over-much; that position of being a sort of "Triton among minnows" at a second-class school influenced her fatally still, and to fall, as she had fallen, was a bitter mortification to her. She sat down now to write to Margaret, and, as she wrote and repeated her husband's sentiments, she began herself to see things more as he did.

In the meantime poor Paul had a very difficult task before him. He had to make his mother understand, without explanations, that his promise of help, as far as a regular increase to her income went, could not be carried out.

Lady Lyons heard with dismay, in which a certain irritation against him for having raised false hopes was plainly visible.

"I have engaged a footman," she said, helplessly; "and now I must send him away. It will look so odd."

"I am very sorry."

"It would have been different, of course, if you had said nothing about it: then, you quite understand, Paul, that then I could have had nothing to complain of."

Paul did quite understand. He went out as soon as he could, going to his club and entering it with that sense of leaving domestic and other troubles behind him which makes club-land enviable to those who know it not.

But the remembrance of his lessened resources came before him there. A friend asked him to give his subscription to help the family of a mutual friend. Paul was obliged to say, with great reluctance, that he found, on reconsideration, he could not do it. This was doubly hard, as, with the full consciousness of a good balance in the bank, he had himself originated the idea.

A clever man would simply have stated the fact of finding himself less well off than he expected, and the fact so stated would have been held sufficient excuse; but Paul Lyons was not clever, and he hesitated, muttered something about not being his own, and gave his friends directly an unfavourable impression.

Manner so often speaks more plainly than words.

Even this refuge seemed to have lost its charm now this unexpected annoyance had crept up.

He could himself do nothing to strip himself of this money since it was not his but belonged to his wife. He took a long walk by the Embankment, and, in the mood he was in, it was natural that the past, with all its follies and the many foolish and wrong things he had done when he was younger, came before him. What right had he to judge his wife so severely? His temptations and hers were different; was his standard so much higher than hers because he had not known the want of money as she had? He began to feel that he had behaved unkindly, and hurried back to that hotel in Brook Street where they were again staying. He would apologise, and, though he could not keep that money, and hoped she would give it up, still they had enough to get on with;—if their bread had no butter, still, there would be bread.

He arrived tired out, and was confronted by his mother, in a state of abject despair, her face blurred with tears, who announced that Grace had gone!

What had passed? It was in vain that he tried to get Lady Lyons to tell him, in rational order, anything about his wife's departure.

Afraid of her son's anger, bewildered by Grace's sudden departure, the poor lady's ideas were entangled in a confusion from which she could not extricate herself; and her son, accustomed as he was to sift her statements, could make nothing of them now. Suddenly she quoted something said by Sir Albert Gerald.

"Was he here then?"

"Yes, he was here. I think, Paul, though I am not quite sure, and I do not want to assert anything not quite the case, that Grace sent for him."

Paul had a natural movement of anger;—Why should a third person be sent for by his wife? What business had any third person to come between them?

"Where has she gone?" he asked, his self-reproach of an hour ago still softening him towards Grace.

"I really do not know—but to Scotland I think. I heard her say to Sir Albert, 'You will escort me,' and he said he was going to Scotland, so I suppose she has gone there also."

"And left no message, or note, or anything for me?" said Paul, with rising anger, not yet fully understanding that Grace had really gone.

"Oh, my dear Paul! how stupid I am. Yes, she left a note for you, or a letter—let me see was it a letter?—no, I remember thinking it was oddly folded."

"Will you please give it to me?" asked Paul with the calmness of despair.

"My dear Paul, if you would only not hurry me and flurry me so," said his mother, as she sought in her pockets, one after another, and then looked under the china ornaments on the mantel-piece, and drove her son wild altogether.

At last she said as a brilliant idea crossed her mind, "I remember now. I was so afraid of forgetting it that I put it inside one of your slippers, Paul, and I knew that you were quite sure to find it to-night, when you put your slippers on. I think it was rather clever of me, eh Paul?"

But Paul had left the room.

As he read his wife's note, consisting only of a few lines, he felt he loved her very dearly. She had gone to Richmond, she could not bear to see him so changed towards her.

"When you have forgiven me, if you can forgive me, then I will come back," she said.

Paul knew he had forgiven her, but he was still sore about that third person intervening. He was on his way to Richmond before many minutes were over.

Grace received him with intense satisfaction, she was ready to promise everything. Then came that question about Sir Albert Gerald.

"Is it possible you do not really understand all that story?" asked Grace, who, now, with that weight removed from her mind, and restored to her husband's affection, was in tremendous spirits.

"I understand nothing about him. What story do you mean?"

Then his wife enlightened him.

"I was to let him know about Margaret when I thought it would not hurt his cause—I was to send for him."

"Oh!" said Paul, "then you think he is in love with Margaret?"

"I do not think it, I know," she answered, laughing.

That evening dinner was ready at the Brook Street Hotel—three covers were laid.

"I think you may remove one cover," said Lady Lyons, "only two are going to dine to-night."

The waiter looked surprised and hesitated, then the door opened, and Grace, beaming, entered, followed by Paul.