Valentine had got a blow. The first real great blow which had ever been dealt to her. It had a most curious effect. Instead of stunning or rendering her weak and incapable, it suddenly changed her from a child into a practical and clever and wide-awake woman. The very quality of her voice changed. It became full, and inspired respect the moment she spoke. She was quite aware that her father had deceived her, that he did not mean her to accompany Gerald to Sydney.

She said nothing about this knowledge—not even that evening when she got home and found her father looking ten years older, but standing on the step of her own little home waiting for her.

"I was too late," she said, quietly. "The Esperance sailed four hours before its time. I must do without Gerald for six months; in six months he will be home."

"In six months," echoed Mr. Paget, following her upstairs to the drawing-room. "Kiss me, my darling," he said. "Valentine, you will come back to your own home to-morrow."

Valentine raised her cheek to meet her father's lips.

"I think I would rather remain here," she said. "This, after all, is my only real home; you don't mind my keeping the house, do you, father?"

"No, my dear, if you wish it. Only I thought——" His last words came out almost tremulously.

"Sometimes we are mistaken in our thoughts," responded Valentine. "I should like best to stay on in my husband's house. Six months will not be long passing; and—father. I have some news for you. In July—if I live until July—God is going to give me a child—Gerald's child and mine. I should like it to be born here."

"Thank God," exclaimed Mr. Paget. "I am very glad of this, Valentine," he said. "This—this—is an inestimable mercy. I hope your child will be a son. My dear daughter, this news lifts a great weight off my mind."

He looked what he felt, delighted.

"Of course you must live wherever you like best," he said. "July—this is March—the child's father will be——" but he did not finish this sentence.

He went away soon afterwards. Ten years had been added to his life in that one single day.

He knew, one glance into Valentine's eyes told him, that she no longer believed in him. What was any success with the heart of his darling turned aside?

He walked home feeling tottering and feeble; he had had a blow, but also a strong consolation—his daughter's child—his grandson. Of course the child should be a boy. There was something to live for in such news as this. A boy to step into his shoes by-and-bye—to keep up the credit of the old house; a boy who should have no shame on him, and no dark history. Yes, yes, this was very good news, and unlooked for; he had much to live for yet.

After this Mr. Paget followed his daughter about like a shadow. Every day her mind and her powers were developing in fresh directions. She had certainly lost some of the charm of her childish ways, but her gain had been greater than her loss. Her face had always been spirituelle, the expression sprightly, the eyes under their arched brows full of light. People had spoken of the girlish face as beautiful, but now that it belonged to a grave and patient, in some respects a suffering woman, they found that it possessed more than ordinary loveliness. The soul had come back again into Valentine's eyes. She knew two things. She was loved—her husband told her that no woman had ever been loved so well before. She was also to become a mother. She considered herself, notwithstanding her crosses, blessed among women, and she resolved to live worthily.

Patience and faith both were hers, and whenever she felt inclined to rebel, to fret, to fume, she thought of the day when she should show her baby to her husband, and tell him face to face that all her heart, all her best affections were divided between him and their child.

She kept to her resolution of living on in the little house in Park-Lane. She led a busy life, interesting herself a good deal in the anxieties and cares of others. When a woman takes up that rÔle she always finds abundance to do, for there are few pairs of shoulders that have not a burden to carry. She also wrote by every mail to her husband. She had already received one letter from him, posted at Teneriffe. This letter was affectionate—cheerful. Valentine read it over and over. It was a very nice letter, but its words did not reach down into her heart as that other letter of Gerald's, written before he sailed, had done. She was puzzled by it. Still she owned to herself that it was just the letter she ought to receive, just the pleasant happy words of a man who was leading a busy and useful life; who was going away for a definite object, and hoped soon to return to his wife and his home.

All went well with Valentine until a certain day. She rose as usual on the morning of that day, went down to breakfast, opened one or two letters, attended to a couple of domestic matters, and went slowly back to the drawing-room. She liked to dust and tidy her little drawing-room herself. She had put it in order this morning, had arranged fresh flowers in the vases, and was finally giving one or two fresh touches to Gerald's violin, which she always kept near her own piano, when she was startled by the consciousness that she was not alone.

She raised her head, turned quickly, a cold air seemed to blow on her face.

"Valentine!" said her husbands voice, in a tone of unspeakable agony.

She fancied she even saw his shadowy outline. She stretched out her arms to him—he faded away.

That afternoon Mrs. Wyndham paid her father a visit in the City. She was shown into his private room by Helps, who eyed her from head to foot with great anxiety.

Mr. Paget looked into her face and grew perceptibly paler. He was certainly nervous in these days—nervous, and very much aged in appearance.

"Is anything wrong, Valentine?" he could not help saying to his daughter. It was the last sentence he wished to pass his lips—he bit them with vexation after the words had escaped them.

"Sit down, my dear; have you come to take me for a drive, like—like—old times?"

"I have not, father. I have come to know when you expect to hear tidings of the arrival of the Esperance at Sydney."

"Not yet, Valentine. Impossible so soon. In any case we shall have a cable from Melbourne first—the vessel will touch there."

"When are you likely to hear from Melbourne?"

"Not for some days yet."

"But you know the probable time. Can you not ascertain it? Will you hear in ten days? In a week? In three days?"

"You are persistent, Valentine."

Mr. Paget raised his eyes and looked at her from head to foot.

"I will ascertain," he said in an almost cold voice, as he sounded an electric bell by his side.

Helps answered the summons.

"Helps, when is the Esperance due at Melbourne?"

Again Helps glanced quickly at Mrs. Wyndham; he was standing rather behind her, but could catch a glimpse of her face.

"By the end of May," he said, speaking slowly. His quick eyes sought his chief's; they took their cue. "Not sooner," he continued. "Possibly by the end of May."

"Thank you," said Valentine.

The man withdrew.

"I have nearly a month to wait," she said, rising and looking at her father. "I did not know that the voyage would be such a lengthy one. When you do hear the news will be bad, father; yes, the news will be bad. I have nothing to say about it, no explanation to offer, only I know."

Before Mr. Paget could make a single reply, Valentine had left him. He was decidedly alarmed about her.

"Can she be going out of her mind?" he soliloquized. "Women sometimes do before the birth of their children. What did she mean? It is impossible for her to know anything. Pshaw! What is there to know? I verily believe I am cultivating that abomination of the age—nerves!"

Whatever Valentine did mean, she met her father that evening as if nothing had happened. She was bright, even cheerful; she played and sang for him. He concluded that she was not out of her mind, that she had simply had a fit of the dismals, and dismissed the matter.

The month passed by, slowly for Valentine—very slowly, also, for her father. It passed into space, and there was no news of the Esperance. More days went by, no news, no tidings of any sort. Valentine thought the vessel was a fortnight overdue. Her father knew that it was at least a month behind its time. When he wrote his letter to the rector of Jewsbury-on-the-Wold he felt even more anxious than his words seemed to admit.

The day after the receipt of this letter Lilias came to town and took Valentine home with her. The next morning Mr. Paget went as usual to his office. His first inquiry was for news of the Esperance. The invariable answer awaited him.

"No tidings as yet."

He went into the snug inner room where he lunched, where Valentine's picture hung, and where he had made terms with Gerald Wyndham. He sank down into an easy-chair, and covered his face with his hands.

"Would to God this suspense were at an end," he said.

The words had scarcely passed his lips when Helps knocked for admission at the inner door, he opened it, caught a glimpse of his servant's face, and fell back.

"You heard," he said. "Come in and tell me quick. The Esperance is lost, and every soul on board——"

"Hush, sir," said Helps. "There's no news of the Esperance. Command yourself, sir. It isn't that—it's the other thing. The young gentleman from India, he's outside—he wants to see you."

"Good God, Helps. Positively I'm faint. Shut the door for a moment; he has come, then. You are sure?"

"This is his card, sir. Mr. George Carmichael."

"Give me a moment's time, Helps. So he has come. It would have been all right but for this confounded uncertainty with regard to the Esperance. But it is all right, of course. Plans such as mine don't fail, they are too carefully made. All the same, I am shaken, Helps. Helps, I am growing into an old man."

"You do look queer, Mr. Paget; have a little brandy, sir; you'd better."

"Thank you; a little, then. Open that cupboard, you will find the flask. Brandy steadies the nerves. Now I am better. Helps, it was in this room I made terms with young Wyndham."

"God forgive you, sir, it was."

"Why do you say that? You did not disapprove at the time."

"I didn't know Mr. Wyndham, sir; had I known, I wouldn't have allowed breathing man to harm a hair of his head."

"How would you have prevented it?"

"How?"

The old clerk's face took an ugly look.

"Split on you, and gone to prison, of course," he said. "Now, shall I send Mr. George Carmichael in? It was for his sake you did it. My God, what a sin you sinned! I see Mr. Wyndham's face every night of my life. Good God, why should men like him be hurled out of the world because of sinners like you and me?"

"He's not hurled out of the world," exclaimed Mr. Paget.

He rose and swore a great oath. Then he said in a quieter voice:—

"Ask Mr. Carmichael to step into my office."

"Into this room, sir?"

"Into this room. Go, fool."

Certainly Mr. Paget had some admirable qualities. By the time a pale-faced, slight, languid-looking man made his appearance, he was perfectly calm and self-possessed. He spoke in a courteous tone to his visitor, and bade him be seated.

They exchanged a few common-places. Then Mr. George Carmichael, who showed far more uneasiness than his host, explained the motive of his visit.

"You knew my father," he said. "Owing to a strange circumstance, which perhaps you are aware of, but which scarcely concerns the object of this call, certain papers of importance did not come into my hands until I was of age. These are the papers."

He placed two yellow documents on the table.

"I find by these that I am entitled to money which you hold in trust."

"You are," said Mr. Paget, with a kindly smile.

"I am puzzled to know why I was never made aware of the fact. I was brought up as a poor man. I had no expectations. I have not been educated to meet the position which in reality awaited me. Somebody has done me a wrong."

"I assure you not me, Mr. Carmichael. Perhaps, however, I can throw some light on the subject. If you will do me the favor of dining with me some evening we can talk the matter over at our leisure."

"Thank you, I have very little leisure."

The stranger was wonderfully restless.

"After a struggle I have succeeded in obtaining a good post in Calcutta. I hurried over to see you. I must hurry back to my work. Oh, yes, thanks, I like India. The main point is, when can you hand me over my money. With interest it amounts to——"

"Including interest it amounts to eighty thousand pounds, Mr. Carmichael. Allow me to congratulate you, sir, as a man of fortune. There is no need to hurry back to that beggarly clerkship."

"It's not a clerkship, Mr. Paget, nor beggarly. I'm a partner in a rising concern. The other man's name is Parr; he has a wife and children, and I wouldn't desert him for the world. Eighty thousand pounds! By Jove, won't Parr open his eyes."

Mr. George Carmichael was now so excited that his shyness vanished.

"When can I have my money, sir?"

"In a month's time."

"Not until then? I wanted to go back to India next week."

"It can be sent after you."

A slow suspicious smile crept round the young man's lips; he looked more well-bred than he was.

"None of that," he said. "I don't stir until I get the cheque. I say, can't you give it me at once? It's mine."

"Not a day sooner than a month. I must take that time to realize so large a sum. You shall have it this day month."

"Beastly inconvenient. Parr will be in no end of a taking. I suppose there's no help for it, however."

"None."

"This is the 17th of June. Now you're not playing me a trick, are you? You'll pay me over that money all square on the 17th of July."

Mr. Paget had an imposing presence. He rose now, slowly, stood on the hearthrug, under his daughter's picture, and looked down at his guest.

"I am sorry for you," he said. "Your education has certainly been imperfect. Your father was a gentleman, and my friend. You, I regret to say, are not a gentleman. I don't repeat my invitation to dine at my house. With regard to the money it shall be in your hands on the 17th July. I am rather pressed for time this morning, Mr. Carmichael, and must ask you to leave me. Stay, however, a moment. You are, of course, prepared to give me all proofs of identity?"

"What do you mean, sir?"

"What I say. The certificate of the marriage of your parents and certificate of the proof that you are the person you represent yourself to be must be forthcoming. I must also have letters from your friends in India. No doubt, of course—no doubt who you are, but these things are necessary."

Notwithstanding that he was the owner of eighty thousand pounds, Mr. George Carmichael left the august presence of the head of Paget Brothers feeling somewhat crestfallen.

He had scarcely done so before Helps rushed in.

"A cable, sir! Praise the Lord, a cable at last!"

He thrust the sheet of paper into his employer's hands. It came from Melbourne, and bore the date of the day before.

"Esperance arrived safely. Delay caused by broken machinery. Accident of a painful nature on board. Full particulars by mail.

"Jellyby."