It was on a misty evening of autumn that Vera Fielding entered her husband's house once more like a bride returning from her wedding-trip. There was something of the petted air of a bride about her as she came in on the squire's arm throwing her greetings right and left to the assembled servants, and certainly there was in her eyes more of the shining happiness of a bride than they had ever held before. Her face was flushed with a pretty eagerness, and the petulant lines about her mouth were far less apparent than of old. Her laugh had a gay spontaneous ring, and though her voice still had a slightly arrogant inflection it was not without softer notes when she addressed the squire.

"I feel as if we had been away for years and years," she said to him, as they stood together before the blazing fire in the drawing-room. "Isn't it strange, Edward? Only three months in reality, and such a difference!"

He was lifting the heavy coat from her shoulders, but she turned with it impulsively and caught him round the neck.

"My dear!" he said, and clasped her coat and all.

"It is going to last, isn't it?" she said, her breath coming quickly.
"You promised—you promised—to love me just as much if I got well!"

He kissed her with reassuring tenderness. "Yes, my girl, yes! It's going to last all right. We're going to make a happy home of it, you and I."

She clung to him for a few seconds, then broke away with a little laugh.
"You'll have to hunt this winter, Edward. You're getting stout."

"And shoot too," said the squire. "There promises to be plenty of birds.
We'd better have a party if you feel up to it."

She looked at him with kindling eyes. "I'm up to anything. I should love it. Do you think Lord Saltash would come?"

"We must certainly ask him," said, the squire. "But you're not to work too hard, mind! That's an order. Let people look after themselves!"

"I'll get Juliet to come and help me," she said. "She must have lots of spare time. By the way, they'll be here to dine in another hour. I must go and dress."

"Have some tea first!" he said. "They won't mind waiting."

She slipped her hand through his arm. "Come and have it upstairs! It really is late. We'll have a cosy time together afterwards—when they're gone."

He smiled upon her indulgently. They had grown very near to one another during their cruise in the Night Moth. To him also their home-coming held something of bridal gladness. He had never seen her so glowing with happiness before. The love that shone in her eyes whenever they met his own stirred him to the depths. He had never deemed her capable of such affection in the old days. It had changed his whole world.

They went upstairs together closely linked. They entered Vera's room from which she imperiously dismissed her maid. They sat down on the couch beside the fire.

"Do you remember that awful day when we quarrelled about Dick Green?" said Vera suddenly.

He kept her hand in his. "Don't!" he said. "Don't remind me of it!"

Her laugh had in it a thrill that was like a caress. "Wasn't I a pig, Edward? And weren't you a tyrant? I haven't seen you in one of your royal rages since. I always rather admired them, you know."

"I know you hated me," he said, "and I'm not surprised."

She made a face at him. "Silly! I didn't. I thought you the finest monster I had ever seen. So you were—quite magnificent." She put up a hand and stroked his iron-grey hair. "Well, we shan't quarrel about young Green any more," she said.

"I wonder," said the squire, not looking at her.

"I don't." She spoke with confidence. "I'm going to be tremendously nice to him—not for Juliet's sake—for yours."

"Thank you, my dear," he said, with an odd humility of utterance that came strangely from him. "I shall appreciate your kindness. As you know—I am very fond of Dick."

"You were going to tell me why once," she said.

He took her hand and held it for a moment. "I will tell you to-night," he said.

The maid came in again with a tea-tray, and they had no further intimate talk. The squire became restless and walked about the room while he drank his cup. When he had finished, he went away to his own, and Vera was left to dress.

Her maid was still putting the final touches when there came a low knock at the door. She turned sharply from her mirror.

"Is that you, Juliet? Come in! Come in!"

Quietly the door opened, and Juliet entered.

"My dear!" said Vera, and met her impulsively in the middle of the room.

"I had to come up," Juliet said. "I hope you don't mind, but neither Dick nor I can manage to feel like ordinary guests in this house."

She was smiling as she spoke. The white scarf was thrown back from her hair. The gracious womanliness of her struck Vera afresh with its charm.

She held her and looked at her. "My dear Juliet, it does me good to see you. How is Dick? And how is Columbus?"

"They are both downstairs," Juliet said, "and one is working too hard and the other not hard enough. I had to bring dear Christopher. You don't mind?"

"Of course not, my dear. I would have sent him a special invitation if I had thought. Come and take off your coat! We got in rather late or I should have been downstairs to receive you."

"Tell me how you are!" Juliet said. "I don't believe I have ever seen you looking so well."

"I haven't felt so well for years," Vera declared. "But I have promised Edward all the same to go up to town and see his pet doctor and make sure that the cure is complete. Personally I am quite sure. But Edward is such a dear old fusser. He won't be satisfied with appearances."

She laughed on an indulgent note, and Juliet smiled in sympathy.

"Well, you've given him good cause for that, haven't you? And you enjoyed the cruise? I am so glad you had good weather."

"It was gorgeous," said Vera. "I must write and tell Lord Saltash. He has given me the time of my life. Have you seen anything of him by the way?"

"Only once," said Juliet. "He came over to congratulate us. But that is some time ago. He may be at the other end of the world by this time."

"No, I think not," Vera said. "I believe he is in England. Was he—at all upset by your marriage, Juliet?"

Juliet laughed a little. "Oh, not in the least. He keeps his heart in a very air-tight compartment I assure you. I have never had the faintest glimpse of it."

"But you are fond of him," said Vera shrewdly.

"Oh yes, quite fond of him," Juliet's eyes had a kindly softness. "I have never yet met the woman who wasn't fond of Charles Rex," she said.

"Does—your husband like him?" asked Vera.

Juliet shook her head quizzically. "No. Husbands don't as a rule."

"Something of a poacher?" questioned Vera.

"Oh, not really. Not since he grew up. I believe he was very giddy in his youth, and then a girl he really cared for disappointed him. So the story runs. I can't vouch for the truth of it, or even whether he ever seriously cared for her. But he has certainly never been in earnest since."

"What about Lady Joanna Farringmore?" said Vera suddenly.

Juliet was standing before the fire. She bent slightly, the warm glow softly tinging her white neck. "I should have thought that old fable might have died a natural death by this time," she said.

Vera gave her a sharp look. There was not actual distaste in Juliet's tone, yet in some fashion it conveyed the impression that the subject was one which she had no desire to discuss.

Vera abandoned it forthwith. "Suppose we go downstairs," she said.

They went down to find Dick and Columbus patiently waiting in the hall. Vera's greeting was brief but not lacking in warmth. The thought of Juliet married to the schoolmaster had ceased to provoke her indignation. She even admitted to herself that in different surroundings Dick might have proved himself to possess a certain attraction. She believed he was clever in an intellectual sense, and she believed it was by this quality that he had captivated Juliet. The fiery force of the man, his almost fierce enthusiasms, she had never even seen.

But she was immediately aware of a subtle and secret link between the two as they all met together in the genial glow of the fire. Dick's eyes that flashed for a second to Juliet and instantly left her, told her very clearly that no words were needed to establish communion between them. They were in close sympathy.

She gave Dick a warmer welcome than she had ever extended to him before, and found in the instant response of his smile some reason for wonder at her previous dislike. Perhaps contact with Juliet had helped to banish the satire to which in the old days she had so strongly objected. Or perhaps—but this possibility did not occur to her—he sensed a cordiality in the atmosphere which had never been present before.

When the squire came down they were all chatting amicably round the fire, and he smiled swift approval upon his wife ere he turned to greet his guests.

"Hullo, Dick!" he said, as their hands met. "Still running the same old show?"

"For the present, sir," said Dick.

They had not met since the occasion of Dick's and Juliet's marriage when the squire had come over immediately before the sailing of the Night Moth to be present, and to give her away. He had been very kind to them both during the brief hour that he had spent with them, and the memory of it still lingered warmly in Juliet's heart. She had grown very fond of the squire.

There were no awkward moments during that dinner which was more like a family gathering than Juliet had thought possible. The change in Vera amazed her. She was like a traveller who after long and weary journeying in shady places had come suddenly into bright sunshine. And she was younger, more ardent, more alive, than Juliet had ever seen her.

The same change was visible, though not so noticeable, in the squire. He too had come into the sun, but he trod more warily as one who—though content with the present—was by no means certain that the fair weather would last. His manner to his wife displayed a charming blend of tenderness and self-restraint; yet in some fashion he held his own with her, and once, meeting Juliet's eyes, he smiled in a way that reminded her of the day on which she had dared to give him advice as to the best means of securing happiness.

Dick was apparently in good spirits that night, and he was plainly at his ease. Having taken his cue from his hostess, he devoted himself in a large measure to her entertainment, and all went smoothly between them. When she and Juliet left the table she gave him a smiling invitation to come and play to them.

"I haven't brought the old banjo," he said, "but I'll make my wife sing.
She is going to help me this winter at the Club concerts."

"Brave Juliet!" said Vera, as she went out. "I wouldn't face that crowd of roughs for a king's ransom."

"She has nothing to be afraid of," said Dick with quick confidence. "I wouldn't let her do it if there were any danger."

"They seem to be in an ugly mood just now," said the squire.

"Yes, I know." Dick turned back to him, closing the door. "But, taken the right way, they are still manageable. There is just a chance that we may keep them in hand if that fellow Ivor Yardley can be induced to see reason. The rest of the Wilchester crew don't care a damn, but he has more brains. I'm counting on him."

"How are you going to get hold of him?" questioned Fielding.

"I suppose I must go up to town some week-end. I haven't told Juliet yet. Unlike the average woman, she seems to have a holy hatred of London and all its ways. So I presume she will stay behind."

"Perhaps we could get him down here," suggested the squire.

Dick gave him a swift look. "I've thought of that," he said.

"Well?" said Fielding.

Dick hesitated for a moment. "I'm not sure that I want him," he said. "He and Saltash are friends for one thing. And there are besides—various reasons."

"You don't like Saltash?" said the squire.

Dick laughed a little. "I don't hate him—though I feel as if I ought to.
He's a queer fish. I don't trust him."

"You're jealous!" said Fielding.

Dick nodded. "Very likely. He has an uncanny attraction for women. I wanted to kick him the last time we met."

"And what did Juliet say?"

"Oh, Juliet read me a lecture and told me I wasn't to. But I think the less we see of each other the better—if I am to keep on my best behaviour, that is."

"It's a good thing someone can manage you," remarked Fielding. "Juliet is a wonderful peacemaker. But even she couldn't keep you from coming to loggerheads with Jack apparently. What was that fight about?"

Dirk's brows contracted. "It wasn't a fight, sir," he said shortly. "I've never fought Jack in my life. He did an infernal thing, and I made him quit, that's all."

"What did he do?" asked the squire. Then as Dick made a gesture of refusal: "Damn it, man, he was in my employment anyway! I've a right to know why he cleared out."

Dick pushed back his chair abruptly and rose. He turned his back on the squire while he poked the blazing logs with his foot. Then: "Yes, you've a perfect right to know," he said, speaking jerkily, his head bent. "And of course I always meant to tell you. It won't appeal to you in the least. But Juliet understands—at least in part. He was responsible for—my boy's death. That's why I made him go."

It was the first time that he had voluntarily spoken of Robin since the day that he and Juliet had followed him to his grave. He brought out the words now with tremendous effort, and having spoken he ceased to kick at the fire and became absolutely still.

The squire sat at the table, staring at him. For some seconds the silence continued, then irritably he broke it.

"Well? Go on, man! That isn't the whole of the story. What do you mean by—responsible? He didn't shove him over the cliff, I suppose?"

"No," Dick said. "He didn't do that. I almost wish he had. It would have been somehow—more endurable."

Again he became silent, and suddenly to the squire sitting frowning at the table there came a flash of intuition that told him he could not continue. He got up sharply, went to Dick, still frowning, and laid an impulsive arm across his shoulders.

"I'm sorry, my lad," he said.

Dick made a slight movement as if the caress were not wholly welcome, but after a moment he reached up and grasped the squire's hand.

"It hit me pretty hard," he said in a low voice, not lifting his hand. "Juliet just made it bearable. I shall get over it, of course. But—I never want to see Jack again."

Again for a space he stopped, then with a sudden fierce impatience jerked on.

"You may remember saying to me once—no; a hundred times over—that I should never get anywhere so long as I kept my boy with me—never find success—or happiness—never marry—all that sort of rot. It was rot. I always knew it was. I've proved it. She would have come to me in any case. And as for success—it doesn't depend on things of that sort. I've proved that too. But he—Jack—got hold of the same infernal parrot-cry. Oh, I'm sorry, sir," he glanced upwards for a second with working lips. "I can't dress this up in polite language. Jack said to my boy Robin what you had said to me. And he—believed it—and so—made an end."

He drew his breath hard between his teeth and straightened himself, putting Fielding's arm quietly from his.

"Good God!" said Fielding. "But the boy was mad! He never was normal. You can't say—"

"Oh, no, sir." With grim bitterness Dick interrupted. "He just took the shortest way out, that's all. He wasn't mad."

"Committed suicide!" ejaculated the squire.

Dick's hands were clenched. "Do you call it that," he said, "when a man lays down his life for his friends?"

He turned away with the words as if he could endure no more, and walked to the end of the room.

Fielding stood and watched him dumbly, more moved than he cared to show. At length, as Dick remained standing before a bookcase in heavy silence, he spoke, his tone an odd mixture of peremptoriness and persuasion.

"Dick!"

Dick jerked his head without turning or speaking.

"Are you blaming me for this?" the squire asked.

Dick turned. His face was pale, his eyes fiercely bright. "You, sir! Do you think I'd have sat at your table if I did?"

"I don't know," the squire said sombrely. "You're fond of telling me I have no claim on you, but I have—for all that. There is a bond between us that you can't get away from, however hard you try. You think I can't understand your feelings in this matter, that I'm too sordid in my views to realize how hard you've been hit. You think I'm only pleased to know that you're free from your burden, at last, eh, Dick, and that your trouble doesn't count with me? Think I've never had any of my own perhaps?"

He spoke with a half-smile, but there was that in his voice that made Dick come swiftly back to him down the long room; nor did he pause when he reached him. His hand went through the squire's arm and gripped it hard.

"I'm—awfully sorry, sir," he said. "If you understand—you'll forgive me."

"I do understand, Dick," the squire said with great kindness. "I know I've been hard on you about that poor boy. I'm infernally sorry for the whole wretched business. But—as you say—you'll get over it. You've got Juliet."

"Yes, thank God!" Dick said. "I don't know how I should endure life without her. She's all I have."

The squire's face contracted a little. "No one else, Dick?" he said.

Dick glanced up. "And you, sir," he amended with a smile. "I'm afraid I'm rather apt to take you for granted. I suppose that's the bond you spoke of. I haven't—you know I haven't—the least desire to get away from it."

"Thank you," Fielding said, and stifled a sigh. "Life has been pretty damnable to us both, Dick. We might have been—we ought to have been—much more to each other."

"There's no tie more enduring than friendship," said Dick quickly. "You and I are friends—always will be."

Fielding's eyes had a misty look. "The best of friends, Dick lad," he said. "But will—friendship—give me the right to offer you help without putting up your pride? I don't want to order your life for you, but you can't go on with this village domini business much longer. You were made for better things."

"Oh, that!" Dick said, and laughed. "Yes, I'm going to chuck that—but not just at once. Listen, sir! I have a reason. I'll tell you what it is, but not now, not yet. As to accepting help from you, I'd do that to-morrow if I needed it, but I don't. I've no pride left where you are concerned. You're much too good to me and I'm much too grateful. Is that quite clear?"

He gave the squire a straight and very friendly look, then wheeled round swiftly at the opening of the door.

They were standing side by side as Vera threw it impatiently wide. She stood a second on the threshold staring at them. Then: "Are you never coming in?" she said. "I thought—I thought—" she stammered suddenly and turned white. "Edward!" she said, and went back a step as if something had frightened her.

Dick instantly went forward to her. "Yes, Mrs. Fielding. We're coming now," he said. "Awfully sorry to have kept you waiting. We've had things to talk about, but we've just about done. You're coming, aren't you, sir? Take my arm, I say! You look tired."

He offered and she accepted almost instinctively. Her hand trembled on his arm as they left the room, and he suddenly and very impulsively laid his own upon it.

It was a protective impulse that moved him, but a moment later he adjusted the position by asking a favour of her—for the first time in the whole of their acquaintance.

"Mrs. Fielding, please, after to-day—give me the privilege of numbering myself among your friends!"

She looked at him oddly, seeking to cover her agitation with a quivering assumption of her old arrogance. But something in his face deterred her. It was not this man's way to solicit favours, and somehow, since he had humbled himself to ask, she had it not in her to refuse.

"Very well, Dick," she said, faintly smiling. "I grant you that."

"Thank you," he said, and gently released her hand.

It was the swiftest and one of the most complete victories of his life.