Mr. Wyndham and Miss Henderson had had but one confidential interview after that first one, during the length of their brief engagement. It was the day after the evening at the theater. Mr. Wyndham had called early and found the heiress waiting for him in the drawing-room. There was no terror, no humiliation in her manner now, nothing but reckless, scornful defiance, and fierce pride, with which she seemed to dare him and Fate to do their worst.

"I was afraid of you yesterday, Mr. Paul Wyndham," she said, with an unpleasant laugh. "I shall never be afraid of you again. I see that it is of no use to struggle against Destiny—Providence, good people would say, but I make no pretense of goodness. The French have a saying that embodies the character of the nation: 'Couronnons nous des roses avant qu'elles ne se fleurissent.' I take that for my motto from henceforth, and crown myself with roses before they fade. I shall dress and spend money and enjoy this fortune while I may—when it goes, why, let it go,—I, shall know what to do when that time comes!"

Mr. Wyndham bowed in grave silence, and waited to hear all she might have to say. "To retain this wealth," she went on in the same reckless tone, and with her black deriding eyes seeming to mock him, "I consent to marry you; that is, I consent to go through a civil and religious ceremony which the world will call a marriage, and which to us will simply mean nothing but an empty form. It will give you a right to my money, which is all you want; it will give you a right to dwell under the same roof, but no right ever to intrude yourself upon me for one second, except when others are present and it is necessary to avoid suspicion. The world will call me by your name; but I shall still remain Olive Henderson, free and unfettered—free to come and go and do as I please, without interference or hindrance from you. Do I make myself understood?"

"Perfectly," Mr. Wyndham said, coolly, "and express my views entirely. I am delighted with your good sense, Miss Henderson, and I foresee we shall make a model couple, and get on together famously. Now, as to our wedding arrangements. When is it to be?"

"Whenever you please," she said, scornfully; "it is a matter of perfect indifference to me."

"I do not like to hurry you too much, but if the end of June——"

Olive made a careless gesture with her ringed hand:

"That will do! One tune is as good as another."

"And our bridal tour? There must be a bridal tour, you know, or people will talk."

"I told you," she said, impatiently, "it was of no consequence to me! Arrange it as you please—I shall make no objection."

"Then suppose we go to Canada for a couple of months? The villa at Redmon can be ready upon our return."

And this tender tÊte-À-tÊte between the plighted pair settled the matter. And in due time the solemn mockery was performed by the Rev. Augustus Tod, and Mr. and Mrs. Wyndham departed on their wedding tour. The upholsterer had received his orders, and the villa would be in readiness upon their return, and there would be a famous house-warming, to which half Speckport was to be invited. About three weeks after the amicable adjustment of affairs between the author and the heiress, Mr. Wyndham made a little investment in landed property on his own account. There was a delightful little dwelling, known as "Rosebush Cottage," for sale. A real bijou of a cottage, painted cream color, with vivid green window-shutters and door, and with a garden in front that was a perfect sea of roses—crimson roses, and monthly roses, and damask roses, and bridal roses, all kinds bloomed here, until the air became faint with perfume; and behind there was a gnarled old orchard, where apple-trees and plum-trees nearly covered the creamy cottage with their long green arms. This delicious Rosebush Cottage was for sale; and Mr. Wyndham, who had for some time been quietly on the look-out for just such a place, became its purchaser. When asked what he could possibly want of it, Mr. Wyndham answered it was for his mother.

"For your mother!" exclaimed Mr. Blake, when Mr. Wyndham first told him. "You never mean to say, Wyndham, your mother is going to exchange the genial and spicy breezes of Westchester County for our bleak province—hey?"

"Westchester County is a delightful place, no doubt," responded Mr. Wyndham; "but in my absence, it is only vanity and vexation of spirit to my poor mother. What are all the Westchester Counties in America to her without her Paul, her only one! I shall send for her as soon as I return from Canada, to come here."

"Perhaps she won't come," said Val; "perhaps she will think of the old adage, 'My son's my son till he gets him a wife,' and prefer remaining where she is."

"No," said Mr. Wyndham, "my mother knows her son will be her son all the days of his life. She is very much changed, Blake, since you knew her; she never was very fond of society, as you are aware; but of late she has become a perfect recluse, shutting herself in and shutting the world out. Rosebush Cottage will make her a very nice hermitage, I think, and it is conveniently near Redmon. The next thing is to look out for a competent and trustworthy servant—not a young girl, you know, giddy and frivolous, but a quiet and sensible woman, who would not object to the loneliness."

Mr. Blake put on his considering-cap.

"There's Midge," he said, "she's out of place, and stopping with us—you saw her at our house last night, you remember; but I'm afraid she mightn't suit."

"That little dwarf, do you mean? She would do well enough, as far as looks are concerned, if that is the only objection."

"But that isn't the only objection," said Val; "more's the pity, for she is perfectly trustworthy, and can work like a horse. As for the loneliness, she would rather prefer it on that very account."

"Then what is the objection?"'

"Why, you see," said Mr. Blake, "we're none of us perfect in this lower world, and Midge, though but one remove from an angel in a general point of view, has yet her failings. For instance, there's her temper."

"Bad?" inquired Mr. Wyndham.

Mr. Blake nodded intelligently.

"It never was of the best, you know; but after she lost Nathalie Marsh, it became—well, she is never kept in any place over a week, and then she comes to us and makes a purgatory of No. 16 Great St. Peter Street, until she finds another situation. I'm afraid she wouldn't do."

Mr. Blake, smelling audibly at the roses as he said this, did not see the sudden change that had come over Mr. Wyndham's face nor the eagerness hardly repressed in his voice when he spoke.

"She was formerly a servant, then, of this Miss Nathalie Marsh, of whom I have heard so many speak since I came here?"

"Yes, for years, and devotedly attached to her. Poor Natty! I think Midge felt her loss ten degrees more than her own mother; but grief, I regret to say, hasn't a sweetening effect on Midge's temper."

"Still I think I shall try her," said Paul Wyndham, carelessly. "My mother is very quiet and easy, and I don't believe they will quarrel. I will see Midge about it this very day."

Which he did accordingly, sending her off at once to keep the cottage until his mother's arrival. The upholsterer furnishing Redmon Villa had his orders for Rosebush Cottage also, and both were to be in readiness when September came round.

Olive Henderson heard with extreme indifference of the expected arrival of Mr. Wyndham's mother, from the lips of Miss Jo Blake, next day.

"Ah! is she?" the heiress said, suppressing a yawn; "well, as she is to reside a mile and a half from Redmon, I don't suppose she will be much trouble to me. If the mistress be like the maid, Laura," said the heiress, turning with a scornful laugh to her friend, "I am likely to have a charming mamma-in-law."

Good Miss Jo, who thought the motherless heiress would rejoice at the tidings she brought her, was scandalized at the speech. Indeed, Miss Jo—the best of women and old maids—did not approve of Miss Henderson's capers at all. She had always thought her too proud; for Miss Jo's simple Irish belief was, that we earthly worms have no business at all with that sin which drove Lucifer, Star of the Morning, from Paradise, and was sorry to see her favorite Laura so much taken up with the queenly coquette.

"Laura was such a nice little girl, Val," Miss Jo said, to the editor of the "Speckport Spouter," across the tea-table that evening; "and now, I am afraid, she will fall into the ways of that young girl, whom everybody is running crazy after. If Miss Henderson was like poor Natty, or that little angel, Miss Rose, now!"

"How is Miss Rose, Jo?" asked Val; "I haven't seen her this month of Sundays?"

"She isn't out much," said Miss Blake; "Mrs. Wheatly keeps her busy; and when she does come out, it's to Mrs. Marsh's she goes, or to see her poor pensioners. Miss Henderson asked her to be one of her bridemaids, I hear, but she refused."

"Stuff!" said Val, politely. "Miss Henderson isn't the woman to ask a governess to be her bridemaid. Not but that Miss Rose is as good as she is!"

"As good!" cried Miss Jo, in shrill indignation, "she's fifty thousand times better. Miss Rose is a little pale-faced angel on the face of the earth; and that rich young woman with the big black eyes is no more an angel than I am!"

Miss Jo manifested her disapprobation of the heiress by not going to see her married, and by declining an invitation to the wedding-breakfast; neither of which slights, had she known of them, which she didn't, would have troubled the high-stepping young lady in the least.

But Miss Jo was destined to become an heiress herself; for, a fortnight after the great wedding, and just as Speckport was getting nicely round after the shock, it received another staggerer in the news that a great fortune had been left to Miss Jo Blake. Thirty thousand pounds, the first startling announcement had it; thirteen, the second; and three, the final and correct one.

Yes; Miss Jo had been left the neat little sum of three thousand pounds sterling, and was going home to take possession of the fortune. An old maiden aunt, after whom Miss Joanna had been named, and from whom she had long had expectations—as all Speckport had heard a million times, more or less—had died at last, and left Miss Jo the three thousand and her blessing.

Upon receiving the tidings, Miss Blake was seized with a violent desire to revisit the scenes of her infantile sports, and gave warning of her intention of starting in the first vessel bound for Liverpool.

"And it's not in one of them dirty steamboats I'll go," said Miss Jo, decisively, "that's liable to blow up any minute; but I'll go an a ship that's slow and sure, and not put a hand in my own life by trusting to one of them new-fangled inventions!"

Mr. Blake expostulated with his sister on the impropriety of leaving him alone and unprotected to the mercies of heartless servant-girls. Miss Jo was inexorable.

"If you don't like keeping house and fighting with the servants," said Miss Blake, "go and board. If you don't like boarding, why, go and get married! it won't hurt your growth any, I'm sure!"

As Mr. Blake was on the wrong side of thirty, and had probably done growing, there was a great deal of sound truth in Miss Jo's remark. Mr. Blake, however, only stood aghast at the proposal.

"It's time you were getting married, Val," pursued Miss Jo, busily packing; "particularly now, that I'm going to leave you. You're well enough off, and there's lots of nice girls in Speckport who would be glad to snap at you. Not that I should like to see you marry a Bluenose—Lord forbid! if it could be helped; but there's Miss Rose, or there's Laura Blair, both of them as nice girls as you will find. Now, why can't you take and marry one of them?"

Mr. Blake was beyond the power of replying. He could only stare in blank and helpless consternation at his brisk, match-making sister.

"I would rather you took Miss Rose," pursued Miss Blake, "she's the best of the two, and a rock of sense; but Laura's very fond of you, and—where are you going now?"

For Mr. Blake had snatched up his hat and started out, banging the door after him. The first person he met, turning the corner, was Mr. Blair.

"So you're going to lose Jo, Blake," he said, taking his arm. "Laura tells me she is off next week in the Ocean Star. What are you going to do with yourself when you lose her?"

"Become a monk, I think," said Mr. Blake, helplessly. "I don't know anything else for it! Jo talks of boarding, but I hate boarding-houses, and where else can I go?"

"Come to us," cried Mr. Blair, heartily. "Mrs. B. thinks there's nobody like you, and you and I will have a fine chance to talk things over together. Come to us, old boy, and make our house your home!"

Mr. Blake closed with this friendly offer at once, on condition that the ladies of the house were satisfied.

"No danger of that," said Laura's father; "they will be in transports. Come up this evening and have a smoke with me, and see if they don't."

Laura Blair's eyes danced in her head when her father told them the news; but the little hypocrite affected to object.

"It will make so much trouble, pa," the young lady said, in a dissatisfied tone, "trouble for ma and me, I mean. I wish he wasn't coming."

Mr. Blair listened to the shocking fib with the greatest indifference. He didn't care whether she liked it or not, and said so, with paternal frankness.

So Miss Jo kissed everybody and departed, and Val translated his Lares and Penates to Mr. Blair's; at least, such of them as were not disposed of by public auction.

Speckport was just settling its nerves after this, when it was thrown into another little flutter by the unexpected return of Captain Cavendish.

Yes, Captain Cavendish, the defeated conqueror, came back to the scene of his defeat, rather swaggering than otherwise, and carrying things with a high hand. Perhaps the gallant captain wanted to show Speckport how little he cared for being jilted; perhaps he wanted to see what kind of life Mr. and Mrs. Wyndham would lead together; perhaps he found himself too well known as a rouÉ and gambler in Montreal; or perhaps he was not tired bleeding young Alick McGregor and young Speckport generally, in that quiet house in Prince Street. He was back, anyway, handsome, and nonchalant, and unprincipled as ever.

Miss Blair received a letter from her friend three weeks after her departure, dated Niagara. Mrs. Wyndham was not a good correspondent, it seemed; her letter was very brief and unsatisfactory, and she only mentioned her husband once, and then merely to say Mr. Wyndham was well. She signed the letter simply, "Olive," not using her real name, and told Laura that Montreal was tiresome and the Canadians stupid. Miss Blair sent her half a quire of note-paper by way of answer, recording every item of information, and every possible scrap of news, and imploring a speedy reply. But Olive never replied, although August wore itself out while Laura waited. On the last day of that month, Mrs. Hill received a telegram from Portland, Me., from Mr. Wyndham, informing her her master and mistress would arrive next day.

It was a glorious September afternoon that on which the wedded pair returned from their short bridal-tour. The steamer swept up to the crowded wharf in a sort of sun-burst of glory, and the air was opaque with amber mist, as if it were raining impalpable gold-dust. Not a sign of fog in the cloudless blue sky; it might have been Venice instead of Speckport, so luminously brilliant was sky and earth that afternoon.

The passengers poured out of the steamer, and came up the bustling floats, where cabmen, porters, hotel-runners and the steamer-hands were making a Babel of discord, and the passengers wondered to see the crowd of people looking curiously down upon them from the wharf above. Laura Blair stood straining her eyes for a sight of her friend. Olive Henderson, with her dangerous gift of fascination, had won the girl's love as it had never been won before, and Laura had missed her sadly during these two last months. As she stood impatiently waiting, she was thinking of that pleasant March evening when Olive Henderson had first come to Speckport, and they had watched her walk up these very floats, stately and tall, leaning on Mr. Darcy's arm, and wearing a vail over her face. And while Laura thought of it, and could scarcely believe it was only six months ago, she saw the same Olive—Olive Wyndham now—coming toward her on her husband's arm. She was not vailed this time, although a long drab gossamer vail floated back from the pretty jockey-hat she wore, and Laura saw how pale and fagged and spiritless she looked. The next moment, she had thrown her arms impetuously around her, and was kissing her rapturously.

"My darling Olly! my darling Olly!" she was crying out. "Oh, how glad I am to see you again!"

Her darling Olly did not return the embrace very enthusiastically, though her face lit up at sight of her friend. Laura shook hands with Mr. Wyndham, who was smiling at her effusions, and then turned again to the friend she loved.

"Oh, Olly! how dull it has been since you went away, and how cruel of you never to write to me! Why didn't you write?"

"Writing is such a bore," Olive said, drearily. "I hate writing. Is that the carriage waiting up there?"

"Yes," said Laura; "and how did you enjoy your travel? You look pale and tired."

"I am tired to death," Mrs. Wyndham said, impatiently, "and I have not enjoyed myself at all. Every place was stupid, and I am glad to be home! Do let us get out of this mob, Mr. Wyndham!"

Mr. Wyndham had paused for a moment to give some directions about the baggage, and his wife addressed him so sharply that Laura stared. Laura noticed during the homeward drive how seldom she spoke to her husband, and how cold her tone always was when she addressed him. But Mr. Wyndham did not seem to mind much. He talked to Laura—and Mr. Wyndham knew how to talk—and told her about their travels, and the places they had been, and the people they had met, and the adventures they had encountered.

"Olive reigned Lady Paramount wherever we went," he said, smiling (he never called her Mrs. Wyndham or "my wife," always Olive). "Our tour was a long succession of brilliant triumphs for her."

Olive merely shrugged her shoulders disdainfully, and looked at the swelling meadows as they drove along Redmon road. A beautiful road in summer time, and the Nettleby cottage was quite lost in a sea of green verdure, sprinkled with red stars of the scarlet-runners. Ann Nettleby stood in the door as they drove by in a cloud of dust—in that doorway where pretty Cherrie used to stand, pretty, flighty little Cherrie, whom Speckport was fast learning to forget.

And Redmon! Could Mrs. Leroy have risen from her grave and looked on Redmon, she might well have stared aghast at the magical changes. A lovely little villa, with miniature peaks and turrets, and a long piazza running around it, and verdant with climbing roses and sweetbrier. A sloping velvety lawn, on which the drawing-room and dining-rooms windows opened, led from the house to the avenue; and fair flower-gardens, where fountains played in marble basins, and bees and butterflies disported in the September sunshine, spread away on all sides. Beyond them lay the swelling meadows, the dark woods; and, beyond all, the shining sea aglitter in the summer sunshine. The groom came up to lead away the horse, and Mrs. Hill, in a black silk dress and new cap, stood in the doorway to receive them. The dark, sunless face of Olive lit up and became luminous for the first time as she saw all this.

"How pretty it is, Laura!" she said. "I am glad I am home."

The servants were gathered in the hall to welcome their master and mistress as they entered arm-in-arm. The upholsterer had done his work well, the drawing-room was one long vista of splendor, the dining-room almost too beautiful for eating in, and there was a conservatory the like of which Speckport had never seen before. Mrs. Wyndham had a suite of rooms, too—sleeping-room, dressing-room, bath-room, and boudoir—all opening into one another in a long vision of brightness and beauty, and there was a library which was a library, and not a mockery and a delusion, and was lined with books from floor to ceiling. Speckport had been shown the house, and pronounced it perfection.

Olive Wyndham forgot her languor and weariness, and broke out in her old delighted way as she went through it.

"How beautiful it all is!" she cried, "and it is all mine—my own! I am going to be happy here—I will be happy here!"

Her black eyes flashed strangely upon her husband walking by her side, and the hand clenched, as if she defied Fate from henceforth.

"I hope so," Paul Wyndham said, gravely. "I hope, with all my heart, you may be happy here."

Laura looked from one to the other in silent wonder. Mr. Wyndham turned to her as they finished the tour of the house.

"I suppose Rosebush Cottage is hardly equal to this, Miss Laura? Have you been there lately?"

"Yes," said Laura. "Val and I—he stops with us now, you know—went through it last week. The rooms are very pretty, and the garden is one wilderness of roses; and Midge reminds me of Eve in Eden, only there is no Adam."

"And Midge does not exactly correspond with our ideas of our fair first mother," laughed Mr. Wyndham. "I must go there to-morrow and see the place. Will you come, Olive?"'

"No, thank you," she said, coldly. "Rosebush Cottage has very little interest for me."

Again Laura stared.

"Why is she so cross?" she thought. "How can she be cross, when he seems so kind? How soon do you expect your mother, Mr. Wyndham?" she said aloud.

"This is Friday—I shall leave on Monday morning for New York to fetch her."

There was an announcement that dinner was ready, and nothing more was said of Mr. Wyndham's mother. He rode over to Rosebush Cottage early next morning, attended only by a big Canadian wolf-hound, of which animals he had brought two splendid specimens with him, and told Midge he was going to leave him as guardian of the premises. Before he left the cottage, he called Midge into the pretty drawing-room, and held a very long and very confidential interview with her, from which she emerged with her ruddy face blanched to the hue of a sheet. Whatever was said in that long conversation, its effect was powerful on Midge; for she remained in a dazed and bewildered state for the rest of the day, capable of doing nothing but sitting with her arms folded on the kitchen-table, staring very hard at vacancy with her little round eyes.

Mr. Wyndham departed for New York on Monday morning, taking the other big dog, Faust, with him. Mrs. Wyndham took his departure with superb indifference—it was nothing to her. John, the coachman, was of as much consequence in her eyes as the man she had promised to love, honor, and obey. She did not ask him when he was coming back—what was it to her if he never came?—but he volunteered the information. "I will be back next week, Olive," he said. "Good-bye." And Olive had said good-bye, icily, and swept past him in the hall, and never once cast a look after him, as he drove down the long avenue in the hazy September sunshine.

The house-warming at Redmon could not very well come off until Mr. Wyndham's return; and the preparations for that great event being going on in magnificent style, and Olive eager for it to take place, she was not sorry when, toward the close of the following week, she learned her husband had returned. It was Miss McGregor who drove up to the villa to make a call, and related the news.

"The boat got in about two o'clock, my dear Mrs. Wyndham," Jeannette said, "and Mr. Wyndham and his mother came in her. I chanced to be on the wharf, and I saw them go up together, and enter a cab and drive off. I am surprised they are not here."

"They drove to Rosebush Cottage, I presume," Olive said, rather haughtily. "Everything is in readiness for Mrs. Wyndham there."

"What is she like, Jeannette?" asked Laura, who was always at Redmon, familiarly. "I suppose she was dressed in black?"

"Yes," Miss McGregor said, "she was dressed in black, and wore a thick black vail over her face, and they had driven off before any one had time to speak to them. No doubt, she would be present at the house-warming, and then they could call on her afterward."

But Mrs. Wyndham, Senior, did not appear at the house-warming; and society was given to understand, very quietly, by Mr. Wyndham, that his mother would receive no callers. Her health forbade all exertion or excitement, it appeared. She seldom, if ever, crossed her own threshold, from week's end to week's end; and it was her habit to keep her room, and she did not care to be disturbed by any one. Her health was not so very poor as to require medical attendance; but Mr. Wyndham owned she was somewhat eccentric, and he liked to humor her. Speckport was quite disappointed, and said it thought Mr. Wyndham's mother was a very singular person, indeed!