Six years later.

The years had gone by—happy, blissful years, during which the Countess of Bracondale had become a popular society and political hostess.

At Bracondale, and in Scotland, the Earl and his wife had on three occasions entertained the Sovereign at shooting-parties, and no social function was complete without the handsome, half-French Lady Bracondale.

After her marriage, though she had no ambition to enter that wild world of unrest which we call modern society, she realised that, in order to assist her husband in his political and diplomatic work, she was compelled to take her place in London life. So she had entered upon it cheerfully; the town house had been redecorated, and many brilliant functions—dinners, balls, diplomatic receptions, and the like—had been given, while at the Foreign Office receptions her ladyship always acted as hostess to the corps diplomatique.

The society newspapers gave her portrait constantly, and declared her to be among the most beautiful women in England.

Wealth, position, popularity, all were hers, and, in addition, she had the great love of her devoted husband, and the comfort of her sweet little daughter, Lady Enid Heathcote—a child with pretty, golden hair—whom she adored. The happiest of wives and mothers, she also bore her part as one of the great ladies of the land, and her husband was ever proud of her, ever filled with admiration.

It was eight o’clock on a warm, August morning at Bracondale, where Jean and her little daughter, with Miss Oliver, the governess, were spending the summer.

Jean came down to breakfast in a pretty gown of Japanese silk embroidered with large, crimson roses, and passed through the dining-room out upon the terrace overlooking the park, where, on warm mornings, it was their habit to take their coffee in Continental style.

As she went along to where the table was set, little Enid, with her hair tied at the side with blue ribbon, and wearing a pretty, cotton frock, came dancing along the terrace, where she was walking with her governess, crying in her childish voice:

“Good morning, mother, dear. I wish you many happy returns of your birthday.”

“Thank you, darling,” replied Jean, catching the child up in her arms and kissing her, while Miss Oliver, a tall, discreet, and rather prim person, at that moment came up with a great bunch of fresh roses which she had just cut for the table.

Bracondale had been absent on official duties at Downing Street for a week, but had returned by special train from Paddington, arriving at Torquay at half-past three in the morning. He had indeed placed aside some most pressing affairs of State in order to spend his wife’s birthday in her company.

And hardly had she kissed her child before he stepped forth from the dining-room, exclaiming:

“Ah! good-morning, Jean. A very happy birthday, dearest,” and bending, he kissed her fondly, while she returned his caress.

“Gunter told me that you did not get home until nearly four o’clock. You must be tired,” she said.

“No, not very,” he laughed. “I had a few hours’ sleep in the train. I’ve just come down to spend the day with you, dearest. I must get back at midnight.”

“It is really very good of you, dear,” she replied. “You know how pleased we both are to have you at our side, aren’t we, Enid?”

“Yes, mother, of course we are,” declared the child, as her father bent to kiss her.

“And now, Jean, I’ve brought you down a little present, which I hope you will like. Men are all fools when they buy a present for a woman. But I’ve got this little trifle for you as a souvenir.”

And placing his hand in the pocket of his dark, flannel jacket, he drew out a magnificent string of pearls—a gift worth, at the least, fifteen thousand pounds. Indeed, that was the price he had paid for them to a dealer in Hatton Garden.

And he had carried them loose in his pocket, leaving the dark green leather case lying upon the library table.

“Oh, how lovely!” Jean cried, in delight, as she saw them. Her eyes sparkled, for she had often wished for such a beautiful row. Pretty things delighted her, just as they delight a child. “It is good of you, dearest,” she said, looking fondly into his face. “I never dreamed that I should have such a handsome present as that!”

“Let me put them on,” he suggested.

Therefore she stood beside the little tea-table, and with Enid clinging to her gown, Lord Bracondale clasped the pearls around his wife’s neck, and then bent to kiss her, a caress which she at once reciprocated, repeating her warm thanks for the magnificent gift.

They suited her well, and Miss Oliver at once went and obtained a small mirror so that her ladyship should see the effect for herself. Jean was not vain. She only liked to wear jewels because it pleased her husband. In the great safe in her dressing-room was stored an array of beautiful jewels—the Bracondale heirlooms. Some of the diamonds had been reset, and she wore them at various official functions. But she prized only those which her husband had given to her. In the Bracondale family jewels she took but little interest.

After all she was essentially modern and up-to-date. Her birth, her youthful experience, the bitterness of her first marriage, and her curious adventures had all combined to render her shrewd and far-seeing. She had kept abreast of the times, and that being so, she could, by her knowledge, often further her husband’s interests.

It being her birthday, she invited Miss Oliver to take her coffee with them, and they were a merry quartette when they sat down to chat in the bright morning sunshine.

The scene was typically English—the long sweep of the park, the great elms dotted here and there, and behind the dark belt of firs the blue Channel sparkling in the morning sun.

“I think in the second week of September I may be able to get away from Downing Street,” Bracondale said, as he sipped his cup of black coffee, for he seldom took anything else until his lunch, served at noon. Morning was the best time for brain work, he always declared, and mental work upon an empty stomach was always best.

“Shall we go to Saint Addresse?” suggested Jean. “The sea-bathing is always beneficial to Enid, and, as you know, the villa, though small, is awfully comfortable.”

“We will go just where you like, dearest. I leave it for you to arrange,” was his reply.

“I love the villa,” she replied, “and Enid does, too.”

“Very well, let us go,” he said. “I’ll make arrangements for us to leave in the second week in September.”

Enid was delighted, and clapped her tiny hands with glee when Miss Oliver told her of her mother’s decision, and then the governess took the child for a stroll around the rosery while husband and wife sat together chatting.

Bracondale sat with his wife’s hand in his, looking into her eyes, and repeating his good wishes for many a happy return of that anniversary.

“I hope you are happy, Jean,” he said at last. “I am trying to make you so.”

“I am very happy—happier now than I have ever been before in all my life,” she answered, looking affectionately into his face. “But do you know that sometimes,” she added, slowly, in an altered voice, “sometimes I fear that this peace is too great, too sweet to last always. I am dreading lest something might occur to wreck this great happiness of mine.”

He looked at her in surprise.

“Why do you dread that?” he asked.

“Because happiness is, alas! never lasting.”

“Only ours.”

“Ah!” she sighed, “let us hope so, dearest. Yet this strange presage of coming evil, this shadow which I so often seem to see, appears so real, so grim, and so threatening.”

“I don’t understand why you should entertain any fear,” he exclaimed. “I love you, Jean; I shall always love you.”

She was silent, and he saw that something troubled her. Truth to tell, the shadow of her past had once again arisen.

“Ah! But will you always love me as fondly as you now do?” she asked, rather dubiously.

“I shall, Jean. I swear it. I love no other woman but yourself, my dear, devoted wife.”

“Many men have uttered those same words before. But they have lived to recall and regret them.”

“That is true,” he said. “Yet it is also true that I love you with all my heart and all my soul, and, further, that my love is so deep-rooted that it cannot be shaken.”

“We can only hope,” she said in a low voice, sighing again. “Though my happiness is so complete, I somehow cannot put this constant dread from me. It is a strange, mysterious feeling that something will one day happen to sweep away all my hopes and aspirations—that you and I might be parted.”

“Impossible, darling!” he cried, starting to his feet; and standing behind her, he placed his arm tenderly around her neck. “What could ever happen that would part us?”

Then the thought flashed across his mind. Her past was enveloped in complete mystery, which, true to his word, he had never sought to probe.

“We never know what trials may be in store for us,” she remarked. “We never know what misfortunes may befall us, or what misunderstandings may arise to destroy our mutual affection and part us.”

“But surely you don’t anticipate such a calamity?” he asked, looking into her handsome countenance, his eyes fixed upon hers.

“Well, I—I hardly anticipate it, yet I cannot get rid of this ever-increasing dread of the future which seems so constantly to obsess me.”

“Ah, I think it may be your nerves, darling,” he remarked. “You had a great strain placed upon you by the London season. All those entertainments of yours must have run you down. You must go to Monplaisir. The bracing air there will benefit you, no doubt. Here, in Devon, it is highly relaxing.”

“No, it is not my nerves,” she protested. “It is my natural intuition. Most women can scent impending danger.”

He was inclined to laugh at her fears, and bent again to kiss her upon the cheek.

“Take no heed of such unpleasant forebodings,” he exclaimed cheerily. “I, too, sometimes look upon the darker side of things, yet of late I’ve come to the conclusion that it is utterly useless to meet trouble half-way. Sufficient the day when misfortune falls.”

“But surely we ought always to try and evade it?”

“If you are foredoomed to misfortune, it cannot be evaded,” he declared.

“That is exactly my argument,” she replied. “I feel that one day ere long a dark shadow, perhaps of suspicion, I know not what, will fall between us.”

“And that we shall be parted!” he cried, starting. “You are certainly cheerful to-day.” And he smiled.

“I ought to be, after your lovely present,” she said, touching the pearls upon her neck with her white hand. “But I confess to you, dearest, I am not. I am too supremely happy, and for that reason alone I dread lest it may pass as all things in our life pass, and leave only bitter regrets and sad disappointments behind.”

“You speak in enigmas, Jean,” he said, bending earnestly to her again. “Tell me what really distresses you. Do you fear something real and tangible, or is it only some vague foreboding?”

“The latter,” she responded. “I seem always to see a grim, dark shadow stretched before my path.”

Bracondale remained silent in wonder for some time.

Then with words of comfort and reassurance, he again pressed his lips to hers, and urged her to enjoy her happiness to its full extent, and to let the future take care of itself.

“Have no care to-day, darling,” he added. “It is your birthday, and I am with you.”

“Ah, yes, you are here—you, my own dear husband!”

And raising her lips, she smiled happily, and kissed him of her own accord.