A whole year had gone by, and it had been, so Chancton village and the whole neighbourhood agreed, the dullest and longest twelve months the place had ever known. What events had happened had all been of a disturbing or lugubrious character, and even Miss Vipen confessed that there had been really nothing pleasant to talk about!

The Cottage was again empty, for Oliver Boringdon and his mother had gone, and their departure, especially that of Mrs. Boringdon, had certainly been viewed with sincere regret. She was such an agreeable, pleasant person, and the village people on their side had soon regretted Oliver's just dealings, which compared most commendably with the favouritism and uncertain behaviour of Doctor McKirdy, who now, as before Mr. Boringdon's brief tenure of the land agency, acted as go-between to the tenants and Madame Sampiero.

Another occurrence, which had certainly played its part in bringing about the general dulness and flatness that seemed to hang over the place as a pall, had been the death, from sudden heart failure, of Lord Bosworth. The owner of Fletchings had been for many years the great man of the neighbourhood; his had been the popular presence at all the local functions he could be persuaded to attend, and there had been a constant stream of distinguished and noteworthy folk to and from his country house. Even those who only saw Lord Bosworth's distinguished guests being conveyed to and from the station, shared in the gratification afforded by their presence. The only day which stood out in the recollection of both gentle and simple was that of Lord Bosworth's funeral; quite a number of really famous people had come down from London to be present.

Then had followed many pleasant discussions, in Miss Vipen's drawing-room and elsewhere, concerning the late peer's will. Lord Bosworth had left everything that could be left away from his heir to the latter's sister, and this of course was as it should be. But there had been a few curious bequests; a considerable legacy, for instance, to Madame Sampiero's old housekeeper, Mrs. Turke; the dead man's watch and chain, a set of pearl studs, and a valuable snuff-box which had been given to him by the Emperor of the French, actually became the property of Doctor McKirdy, who—so said popular rumour—had begun by declining the legacy, and then, in deference to Madame Sampiero's wish, had accepted it! All agreed that it had been very generous of her to interest herself in the matter, for strange, very strange, to say, her name was not mentioned at all in the will! Oddest of all, in the opinion of the neighbourhood, was the bequest to Mrs. Rebell of the portrait of the child, described as that of "My daughter Julia"; but the picture still hung in what had been Lord Bosworth's study at Fletchings. There was a crumb of comfort inasmuch as the little estate had not been sold. Perhaps the new Lord Bosworth, to whom such an insignificant possession could be of but little account, intended to present it to his sister, Miss Berwick.

The fact that all the Priory servants had been put into mourning had given most people subject for remark, and had rather scandalised everybody; it seemed to dot the i's and cross the t's of the now forgotten scandal. Indeed, the more charitable were inclined to think that the servants' mourning was really worn because of the death of Mrs. Rebell's husband, which had become known at Chancton two days after that of Lord Bosworth,—a fact which had prevented its attracting as much attention and comment as perhaps the event deserved.

It had been noted, however, with a good deal of concern, that Mrs. Rebell did not wear proper widow's weeds; true, she made her widowhood the excuse for living a life of even greater seclusion than she had done before, and she wore black, but no one—so those interested in the matter declared—would take her for a newly-made widow.

Yet another thing which had certainly contributed to the dulness of the neighbourhood had been the absence, the whole summer and autumn through, of the new Lord Bosworth,—for this of course had meant the shutting up of Chillingworth. After making an ineffectual, and, so most of the people belonging to that part of the world thought, a very ridiculous attempt to assert his right to go on sitting in the House of Commons, he had started "in a huff" for a tour round the world. But he wrote, so said report, very regularly to Madame Sampiero, and to his old nurse, Mrs. Turke. He had also sent to various humble folk in Chancton wonderful presents; no one connected with Chillingworth had been forgotten, not even Dean's new baby,—to whom, by the way, Dean's master had acted, being of course represented by proxy, as god-father.

Now, however, the neighbourhood was waking up a little; for one thing the wanderer was home again, having hurried back to be present at the distribution of the Liberal loaves and fishes,—strange though it seemed that a peer should continue to be a Radical, especially such an immensely wealthy peer as was the new Lord Bosworth.

With only one group of people might time be said to have stood quite still. These were General and Mrs. Kemp and their daughter Lucy. But Lucy was certainly less bright—perhaps one ought to say duller—than she used to be. On the other hand, she had become very intimate with Mrs. Rebell; they were constantly together, and people could not help wondering what the latter saw in Lucy Kemp.

It was the third of April. Miss Vipen prided herself upon remembering dates; the anniversaries of birthdays, of weddings, of deaths, lingered in her well-stored mind, and she also kept a little book in which she noted such things. To-day was to be long remembered by her, for, having most fortunately had occasion to go across to the post office just after luncheon, she had seen, lying on the counter, a telegram containing a most extraordinary and unexpected piece of news.

Miss Vipen regarded telegrams as more or less public property, and she had met the flustered postmaster's eye,—an eye she had known absolutely from its infancy,—with a look of triumphant confidence. Then, by amazing good luck, while on the way back to her own house, she had come across Mrs. Sampson, the rector's wife, and from her had won ample, overwhelming confirmation, of the most interesting event which had happened in the neighbourhood for years and years!

It was a delightful spring day and Miss Vipen decided that, instead of waiting calmly at home until her usual circle gathered about her at tea time, she would make a number of calls, ensuring a warm welcome at each house by the amazing and secret tidings she would be able to bring. Mrs. Sampson was still bound to silence, and only the fact that Miss Vipen was already acquainted with the morning's happenings had made the rector's wife reluctantly complete, and as it were, round off, the story.

Miss Vipen's first call was at Chancton Grange. Since General Kemp had behaved so strangely some two years before, turning on his heel and leaving her drawing-room before he had even said how do you do, she had scarcely ever crossed Mrs. Kemp's threshold. But to-day an unwonted feeling of kindness made her aware that the important piece of gossip she came to bring would make her welcome to at least one of the Grange's inmates, and to the one whom she liked best, for she had always been, so she assured herself to-day, rather fond of Lucy. Poor Lucy, wasting her youth in thinking of a man who would certainly never think of her, and yet with whom, so Miss Vipen understood, her parents very wrongly allowed her to correspond!

The old lady was naturally delighted to find the inmates of the Grange all at home, and all three sitting together in the room into which she was shown. Both the General and his wife made what they flattered themselves was a perfectly successful attempt to conceal their surprise at seeing Miss Vipen, but they were not long left in doubt as to why she had come, for she plunged at once into the matter, looking sharply from her host to her hostess, and from Mrs. Kemp to Lucy, as she exclaimed, "I suppose that you have not heard the great news? You have no idea of what took place this morning? Here, in Chancton Church?"

But General and Mrs. Kemp shook their heads, but their daughter began to look, or so Miss Vipen thought, rather guilty.

"Well, there was a wedding at our church this morning! But you will never guess,—I defy any of you to guess,—who was the bride and who the bridegroom!"

Then the speaker saw with satisfaction that General Kemp gave a sudden anxious glance at Lucy. "The lady has not lost much time," continued Miss Vipen, "for her husband has only been dead four or five months. Now can you guess who it is?"

But Lucy broke the awkward silence. "Just ten months, Miss Vipen—Mrs. Rebell became a widow early in June——"

"Well, no matter, but can you guess the name of the happy man? Of course one could give two guesses——"

But alas! Miss Vipen was denied her great wish to be the first to tell the delightful piece of news, for, while she was enjoying Mrs. Kemp's obvious discomfort, Lucy again spoke, and in a sharp voice very unlike her own,

"Why, Mr. Berwick—I mean Lord Bosworth, of course! Who else could it be?" Then she looked rather deprecatingly at her parents: "I could not say anything about it, because it was told me only yesterday, as a great, a very great, secret."

"And do you know," continued Miss Vipen in a rather discomfited tone, "who were the witnesses?"

"No," said Lucy, "that I do not."

"Doctor McKirdy for Lord Bosworth, and Daniel O'Flaherty, that Home Ruling barrister who is mixed up in so many queer cases, for Mrs. Rebell! I can tell you another most extraordinary thing. She was actually married in a white dress—not a veil of course, but a white gown and a hat. And who else do you think were there? Mrs. Turke—it's the first time to my knowledge that she's been in that church for years—the Scotchwoman, Jean, the French maid LÉonie, and the butler McGregor! Mrs. Turke wore a pale blue watered silk dress and a pink bonnet; she cried, it seems, so loudly that Mr. Sampson became quite confused——"

"And Miss Berwick?" said Lucy quietly, "was she not there too?"

"Yes, of course; I was forgetting Miss Berwick. Well, this must be a sad day for her—after all her striving and scheming for her brother! No wonder he kept Fletchings, for I suppose they will have to live there now," Miss Vipen spoke with deep and sincere commiseration. "What a change for him after Chillingworth! He becomes a pauper—for a peer, for a Cabinet Minister, an absolute pauper! They are going to France this afternoon for the honeymoon, but they are to be back soon."

When Miss Vipen had been seen safely out of the gate by General Kemp, he came back to find his wife alone. Lucy had gone up to her room.

"I suppose you expected this, Mary?"

"Yes—no"—Mrs. Kemp had an odd look on her face—"and yet I always liked Mr. Berwick from the very little I saw of him. But I confess I never thought this would happen. Indeed, I was afraid, Tom,—there is no harm in saying so now,—I was afraid that in time Oliver Boringdon would obtain what seemed to be the desire of his heart——"

"Afraid?" cried the General, "Nothing could have pleased me better, excepting that I should have been sorry for Mrs. Rebell! I suppose that now you are quite delighted, Mary, at the thought that Boringdon will again begin haunting Lucy. It is not by my good will that you have allowed them to write to one another."

Poor Mrs. Kemp! She had no answer ready. During the last year she had learnt what hatred was, for she had hated Oliver Boringdon with all the strength of her strong nature; not only had he left Chancton taking Lucy's heart with him, but he had made no effort to free himself of the unwanted possession. Nay, more, almost at once a regular correspondence had begun between the two, and though Lucy was not unwilling that her mother should see his letters, Mrs. Kemp did not find much to console her in them.

And now? The mother realised that she must make haste to transform her feeling towards Oliver Boringdon into something akin to liking. As a beginning she now went up to Lucy's room, her heart yearning over the girl, but with no words prepared. Perhaps now her child would come back to her—the last year had been a long, sad year to Mrs. Kemp.

Lucy was sitting idly by the rosewood davenport. There were traces of tears on her face. "Mother!" she said, "Oh, mother!" Then she took Mrs. Kemp's hand and laid her cheek against it. In a very different tone she added, "I felt rather ashamed at not telling you yesterday. Barbara would not have minded your knowing, but Lord Bosworth was anxious that no one should be told."

"Is that why you are crying?" asked Mrs. Kemp in a low voice.

"No, no, of course not! I am afraid—Oh! mother! do you think it will make him very unhappy?"

"For a little while," said Mrs. Kemp drily, "he will fancy himself so, and then he will begin to wonder whether, after all, she was quite worthy of him!"

"Don't say that—don't think so unkindly of him!" Lucy stood up, she put her hand through her mother's arm, "Do you think people ever leave off caring, when they have once cared—so much?"

"Lucy," said Mrs. Kemp, "have you ever wondered why your father and I married so late? You know we were engaged—first—when I was only nineteen——"

"Because you were too poor!" cried Lucy quickly, "because father was in India!" and then, as her mother looked at her quite silently, the girl added, with a kind of cry, "Oh! mother! what do you mean?"

"I mean,—I do not think that now he would be unwilling that you should know, my darling,—that a woman came between us. Someone not so good, not so innocent as Barbara Rebell,—for I do think that in this matter she was quite innocent, Lucy."

"But father always liked you best, mother? How could he help it?"

"No," said Mrs. Kemp, "there was a time when he did not like me best. There were years when he loved the other woman, and I was—well, horribly unhappy. And yet, you see, he came back to me,—I fought through,—and you, my dear one, will fight through, please God, to be as happy a woman as your mother has been ever since you have known her."

THE END.