It had been arranged that Denzil and his mother should spend Christmas with Amaryllis at Ardayre. Both felt that it was going to be the most wonderful moment when they should meet. There were no obstacles now to their happiness and everything promised to be full of joy. The months which had gone by since John's death had been turning Amaryllis into a more serene and forceful being. The whole burden of the estate had fallen upon her young shoulders and she had endeavoured to carry it with dignity and success—and yet have time to spare for her war organisations in the county. She had developed extraordinarily and had grown from a very pretty girl into a most beautiful young woman. What would Denzil think of her? That was her preoccupation—and what would he think of the baby Benedict?

The great rooms at Ardayre were shut up except the green drawing room, and she lived in her own apartments, the cedar parlour being her chief pleasure. It was now filled with her books and all the personal belongings which expressed her taste. The nurseries for the heir were just above.

Her guests were to be there on the twenty-third of December, and when the hour came for the motor to arrive from the station Amaryllis grew hot and cold with excitement. She had made herself look quite exquisite in a soft black frock, and her heart was beating almost to suffocation when she heard the footsteps in the hall. Then the green drawing room door opened and Colonel and Mrs. Ardayre were announced and were immediately greeted by the great tawny dogs and then by their mistress. A pang contracted her heart when she caught sight of Denzil—he was so very pale and thin, and he walked painfully and slowly with a stick. It was only a wreck of the splendid lover who had come to Ardayre before. But he was always Denzil of the ardent eyes and the crisp bronze hair!

They were people of the world, and so the welcoming speeches went off easily, and they sat round the tea-table with its singing kettle and its delectable buns and Devonshire cream, and Amaryllis was gracious and radiant and full of dignity and charm. But inwardly she felt deliciously shy and happy.

They had neither met nor written any love letters since the April day when they had parted in Brook Street, which now seemed to be an age away.

Her attraction for Denzil had increased a hundredfold. He thought as she sat there pouring out the tea, of how he would woo her with subtlety before he would claim her for his own. He was stimulated by her sweet shyness and her tender aloofness. The tea seemed to him to be interminably long and he wished for it to end.

Mrs. Ardayre behaved with admirable tact; she spoke of all sorts of light and friendly things, and then asked about the baby. Was he not wonderful, now at seven months old!

The lovely vivid pink deepened in Amaryllis' smooth velvet cheeks, and her grey eyes became soft as a doe's.

"You shall see him in the morning—he will be asleep now. Of course, to me he is wonderful, but I daresay he is only an ordinary child."

She had peeped at Denzil and had seen that his face fell a little as she said they should only see the baby the next day, and she had felt a wave of joy. She knew that she meant to take him up quietly presently—just he and she alone!

After they had finished tea, Mrs. Ardayre suggested that she should go to her room.

"I am tired, Amaryllis, my dear," she announced cheerily,—"and I shall rest for an hour before dinner."

"Come then and I will show you both your rooms."

They came up the broad staircase with her, Denzil a step at a time, slowly, and at the top she stopped and said to him:

"Perhaps you will remember that is the door of the cedar parlour at the end of the passage—you will find me there when I have installed your mother comfortably. Your room is next to hers," and she pointed to two doors through the archway of the gallery. Then she went on with Mrs. Ardayre.

Some contrary nervousness made her remain for quite a little while.

Was Cousin Beatrice sure that she was comfortable? Had she everything she wanted? Her maid was already unpacking, and all was warm and fresh scented with lavender and bowls of violets on the dressing table.

"My dear child, it is Paradise, and you are a perfect angel—I shall revel in it after the cold journey down."

So at last there was no excuse to stay longer, and Amaryllis left the room; but in the passage it seemed as though her knees were trembling, and as she passed the top of the staircase she leaned for a second or two on the balustrade.

The longed for moment had come!

When she opened the door of the cedar parlour, with its soft lamps and great glowing logs, she saw Denzil was already there, seated on the sofa beside the fire.

She ran to him before he could rise, the movement she knew was pain to him—and she sank down beside him and held out her hands.

"Beloved darling!" he whispered in exaltation, and she slipped forward into his arms.

Oh! the bliss of it all! After the months of separation, and the horrible trenches and the battles and the suffering, the days and nights of agonising pain! It seemed to Denzil that his being melted within him—Heaven itself had come.

They could not speak coherently for some moments, everything was too filled with holy joy.

"At last! at last!" he cried presently. "Now we shall part no more!"

Then he had to be assured that she loved him still.

"It is I who must take care of you now, Denzil, and I shall love to do that," she cooed.

"I have not thought much of the hurt," he answered her, "for all these months I have just been living for this day, and now it has come, darling one, and I can hardly believe that it is true, it is so absolutely divine—"

They could not talk of anything but themselves and love for an hour, they told each other of their longings and anxieties—and at last they spoke of John.

"He was so splendid," Denzil said, "unselfish to the very end," and then he described to Amaryllis how he actually had died, and of his last words, and their thought for her.

"If he could see us, I think that he would be glad that we are happy."

"I know that he would," but the tears had gathered in her eyes.

Denzil stroked her hand gently; he did not make any lover's caress, and she appreciated his understanding, and after a little she leaned against his arm.

"Denzil—when we live here together, we must always try to carry out all that John would have wished to do. It meant his very soul—and you will help me to be a worthy mother of the Ardayre son."

She had not spoken of the child before—some unaccountable shyness had restrained her, even in their fondest moments. And yet the thought had never been absent from either. It had throbbed there in their hearts. It was going to be so exquisite to whisper about it presently!

And Denzil had waited until she mentioned this dear interest. He did not wish to assume any rights, or take anything for granted. She should be queen, not only of his heart, but of everything, until she should herself accord him authority.

But his eyes grew wistful now as he leaned nearer to her.

"Darling, am I not going to be allowed to see—my son!"

Then, with a cry, Amaryllis bent forward and was clasped in his arms. All her wayward shyness melted, and she poured forth her delight in the baby—their very own!

"You will see that he is just you, Denzil,—as we knew that he would be, and now I will go and fetch him for you and bring him here, because the stairs up to the nursery are so steep they might hurt you to climb."

She left him swiftly, and was not long gone, and Denzil sat there by the fire trembling with an emotion which he could not have described in words.

The door opened again and Amaryllis returned with the tiny sleeping form, in its long white nightgown and wrapped in a great fleecy shawl.

She crept up to him very softly. The little one was sound asleep. She made a sign to Denzil not to rise, and she bent down and placed the bundle tenderly in his arms.

Then they gazed at the little face together with worshipping eyes.

It was just a round pink and white cherub like thousands of others in the world; the very long eyelashes, sweeping the sleep-flushed cheeks, and minute rings of bronze-gold hair curling over the edge of the close cambric cap; but it seemed to those two looking at it to be unique, and more beautiful than the dawn.

"Isn't he perfect, Denzil!" whispered Amaryllis, in ecstasy.

"Marvellous!" and Denzil's voice was awed.

Then the wonder and the divinity of love and its spirit of creation came over them both and a mist of deep feeling grew in both their eyes.

* * * * *

At dinner they were all so happy together. Mrs. Ardayre was a note of harmony anywhere. She had gradually grown to understand the situation in the months of her son's recovering from his wounds and although no actual words had passed between them Denzil felt that his mother had divined the truth and it made things easier.

Afterwards, in the green drawing room, Amaryllis played to them and delighted their ears, and then they went up to the cedar parlour and sat round the fire and talked and made plans.

If it should be quite hopeless that Denzil could ever return to the front, or be of service behind the lines, he meant to enter Parliament. The thought that his active soldiering was probably done was very bitter to him, and the two women who loved him tried to create an enthusiasm for the parliamentary idea. The one certainty was that his adventurous spirit would never remain behind in the background, whatever occurred.

They would be married at the beginning of February, they decided. The whole of their world knew of John's written wishes, and no unkind comments would be likely to arise.

And when Beatrice Ardayre left them alone to say good-night to each other, Denzil drew Amaryllis back to his side!

"I think the world is going to be a totally new place, darling—after the war. If it goes on very long the gradual privation and suffering and misery will create a new order of things, and all of us should be ready to face it. Only fools and weaklings cling to past systems when the on-rolling wave has washed away their uses. Whatever seems for the real good of England must be one's only aim, even if it means abandoning what was the ideal of the Family for all these hundreds of years. You will advance with me, Sweetheart, will you not, even if it should seem to be a chasm we are crossing?"

"Denzil, of course I will."

He sighed a little.

"The old order made England great—but that cycle is over for all the world—and what we shall have to do is to stand steady and try to direct the new on-rush, so that it makes us greater and does not sweep civilisation into darkness, as when Rome fell. It may be a fairly easy matter because, as StÉpan says, we have got such fundamental common sense. It would be much less hard if the people at the top were really courageous and unhampered by trying to secure votes, or whatever it is, which makes them wobble and surrender at the wrong moment. If the politicians could have that dogged, serene steadfastness which the Tommies, and almost every man has in the trenches, how supreme we should be—!"

"I hope so, but one must have vision as well so that one can look right ahead and not stumble over retained old prejudices; people so often want a thing and yet have not will enough to eliminate qualities in themselves which must obviously prevent their obtaining their desire."

Denzil was not looking at her now, he was gazing ahead with his blue eyes filled with light, and she saw that there was something far beyond the physical magnetism which drew her to him, and a pride and joy filled her. She would indeed be his helpmate in all his undertakings and striving for noble ends. They talked for some time of these things and their plans to aid in their fulfilment, and then they gradually spoke of Verisschenzko and Amaryllis asked what was the latest news—he was in Russia, she supposed.

"StÉpan will be arriving in London next week. I heard from him to-day. Won't you ask him down, darling, to spend the New Year with us here—it would be so good to see the dear old boy again."

This was agreed upon, and then they drifted back to lovers' whisperings, and presently they said a fond good-night.

* * * * *

Christmas Day of 1915, and the weeks which followed were like some happy dream for Denzil and Amaryllis. Each hour seemed to discover some new aspect which caused further understanding and love to augment. They spent long late afternoons in the cedar parlour dipping into books and a delicious pleasure was for Amaryllis to be nestled in Denzil's arms on the sofa while he read aloud to her in his deep, magnetic voice.

Beatrice Ardayre at this period was like a pleased mother cat purring in the sun while her kittens gambol. Her well-beloved was content, and she was satisfied. She always seemed to be there when wanted and yet to leave the lovers principally to themselves.

Another of their joys was to motor about the beautiful country, exploring the old, old churches and quaint farmhouses and manors with which North Somerset abounds; and they went all over the estate also and saw all the people who were their people and their friends. The union was thoroughly approved of, and although the engagement was not to be officially announced until after the New Year it was quite understood, as the tenants had all heard of John's instructions in his will. But perhaps the most supreme joy of all was when they could play with the baby Benedict together alone for half an hour before he went to bed. Then they were just as foolish and primitive as any other two young things with their firstborn. He was a very fine and forward baby and already expressed a spirit and will of his own, and it always gave Denzil the very strangest thrill when he seized and clung firmly to one of his fingers with his tiny, strong, chubby hand. And over all his qualities and perfections his parents then said wonderful things together!

Every subtle and exquisite pleasure, mystical, symbolical and material, which either had ever dreamed of as connected with this living proof of love, was realised for them. And to know that soon, soon, they would be united for always—wedded—not merely engaged. Oh! that was glorious—when passion need be under no restraint—when there need be no good-night!

For in this the chivalry of Denzil never failed—and each day they grew to respect each other more.

Verisschenzko was to arrive in time for dinner on the last day of the old year. That afternoon was one of even unusually perfect happiness—motoring slowly round the park and up on to the hills in Amaryllis' little two-seater which she drove herself. They got out at the top and leaned upon a gate from which they seemed to be looking down over the world. Peaceful, smiling, prosperous England! Miles and miles of her fairest country lay there in front of them, giving no echo of war.

"If we had been born sixty years ago, Denzil, what different thoughts this view would be creating in our minds. We would have no speculation—no uncertainty—we should feel just happy that it is ours and would be ours for ever! The world was asleep then!"

"StÉpan would say that it was resting before the throes of struggle must begin. Now we are going to face something much greater than the actual war in France, but if we are strong we ought to come through. We have always been saner than other peoples, so perhaps our upheaval will be saner too."

"Whatever there is to face, we shall be together, Denzil, and nothing can really matter then—and we must make our little Benedict armed for the future, so that he will be fitted to cope with the conditions of his day."

"Look there at the blue distance, darling, could anything be more peaceful? How can anyone in the country realise that not two hundred miles away this awful war is grinding on?"

Denzil put an arm round her and drew her close to him and clasped her fondly.

"But just for a little we must try to forget about it. I never dreamed of such perfect happiness as we are having, Sweetheart,—my own!"

"Nor I, Denzil,—I am almost afraid—"

But he kissed her passionately and bade this thought begone. Afraid of what? Nothing mattered since they would always be together. February would soon come, and then they would never part again.

So the vague foreboding passed from Amaryllis' heart, and in fond visionings they whispered plans for the spring and the summer and the growing years. And so at last they returned to the house and found the after-noon post waiting for them. Filson had just brought it in and Amaryllis' letters lay in a pile on her writing table.

There happened to be none for Denzil and he went over to the fireplace and was stroking the head of Mercury, the greatest of the big tawny dogs, when he was startled by a little ominous cry from his Beloved, and on looking up he saw that she had sunk into a chair, her face deadly pale, while there had fluttered to the floor at her feet a torn envelope and a foreign looking postcard.

What could this mean?