Mrs. Vane being one of those heaven-sent pivots or jewels, without which the wheels of society are apt to come to a standstill, it was only natural that her sudden collapse, joined to the general depression which invariably follows on a country house entertainment, should have reduced the inmates of Gleneira to a condition of blank discontent. To tell truth, a large proportion of them had reasonable cause for a vague uneasiness, if not for actual discomfort, though Lady George wrinkled her high, white forehead in tragic perplexity over some of the resulting phenomena.

"Of course," she said at lunch, "I was quite prepared that the cook should give warning. They always do when they have worked hard, and, really, the supper left nothing to be desired; besides, it is an empty form when we are all going away next week. But why the housemaid should want a new set of brushes to-day, when she knows I have to send to Glasgow for them; and why Ean, the boy--such a good-looking boy, too--who cleans the boots, should demand an immediate rise in wages, I cannot think."

"What's enough for one ain't enough for two," broke in Eve from her sago pudding, with an indescribable twang and a semi-sentimental air. "Mary's going to marry him; he asked her in the boot hole when the piper was playing the 'Blue Bells of Scotland' in the kitching. The thought of her 'ighland laddie bein' gone was too much for her feelinks, so she accepted him, and he gave her a kiss."

"Eve!" cried her mother, in horrified accents, "don't say such things."

"But it's true, ducksie mummie," retorted the young lady, unabashed. "Mary said so. We heard her telling nurse, didn't we, Adam?"

"Yes, we did, Evie; and nursie said----"

"Paul!" cried Lady George, in desperation, "you might give the children some of that trifle before you; it won't hurt them once in a way. And I really think it was too bad of the Hookers to bring the piper to the ball, after my making such a point of his not coming to the play. I call it most unneighbourly."

"My dear Blanche," protested Paul, "what is the use of being a rich Highland proprietor if you don't have a piper, and what is the use of having a piper if he mayn't play at functions? You agree with me, don't you, Miss Woodward?"

Alice, looking dainty in the elaborate simplicity of a Paris batiste, agreed with a smile, as she had learnt to do as a matter of course whenever he chose to make these little appeals for sympathy, with their underlying suggestion of a common future. He was really very handsome and charming; everything a girl could desire in a husband.

"It is all very well for you to talk of functions," continued his sister, in aggrieved tones, "but the question is, what is a function? Marriages, of course, and, I suppose, funerals; but that reminds me. We really must have that projected picnic to the old burying-ground this week. I want Mr. Woodward to see it, and he was talking of London this morning."

The end of the sentence was prompted by that desire of the hostess to see her team of guests working fairly together for their own good, which Lady George felt to be a part of her duty, and the guest thus challenged had not opened his mouth since he sate down, except to fill it with cold beef and pickles, which he swallowed gloomily, like a man who, having missed his connection, is trying to while away the time before the next train in the refreshment room.

"You are very kind," he said, in sepulchral tones, "but the method in which Her Majesty's mails are delivered--or rather not delivered, in this place, renders it necessary that I should return at once. Just before lunch I received a letter which, I give you my honour, had been mislaid in the post-bag--a most important letter--a--a most---- However, as I was to have told you after lunch, I--I feel it my duty--but, of course, this--er--will not make any change in--in plans."

He glanced comprehensively at his daughter, and Paul Macleod, seated at the bottom of the table, felt as if the guard had come into the refreshment room and said, "Time up, gentleman!" The closing scene of the comedy was close at hand, and though he was quite prepared for it, he still objected to the force majeure which compelled him to go through with it; just as he objected to that other restraint which the knowledge of his absurd feeling for Marjory brought with it. The whole position irritated him to the last degree, and in one and the same breath he told himself that he wished the business were over, and that it had never begun. And yet, when he and Alice, in strolling round the garden together, found themselves among the orange blossoms, he grew quite sentimental. The heavy perfume and, artificial atmosphere seemed to suit the growth of his physical content. Then, courteous by nature to all women, he had already felt that this girl had a stronger claim on his consideration than others, and this feeling produced just that calm, continual attention which suited her lack of sentiment. There was nothing in it to disturb her placidity or shake the quiet conviction that in deciding on Gleneira and its owner she was distinctly doing her duty by everybody, herself included. For Jack had apparently acquiesced in her decision; at least, he wrote quite cheerfully from Riga. So she listened contentedly to the covert lovemaking which long experience had made so easy to Paul Macleod, provided his companion had a decent share of good looks. In fact, one of his chief causes of irritation in regard to Marjory was that he never had the slightest desire to flirt with her.

Meanwhile Mrs. Vane remained in her room by Dr. Kennedy's orders, who, to tell truth, was rather surprised to find how severe a shock her nervous system had sustained. When, in consequence of a little note saying that if he would so far forego his holiday as to take her for a patient, she would far rather see an old friend than a strange doctor, he had gone over to see her, he had found her far worse than he had expected. The truth being that she was in a fever of excitement to know whether he suspected anything, and to hear all the particulars of this strange bequest to poor old Peggy. If she had only known what the long blue envelope had contained, she would not have advised the delay in opening it, which had led to the poor old soul dying a pauper's death, dying with bitter thoughts in her heart of the world she was leaving. Mrs. Vane would have liked to tell so much to the doctor as a sort of salve to her conscience, but she did not dare to do this. There was a certain packet of letters locked away in her dressing-case which forbade her risking the least inquiry. Yet she could not refrain from asking if any other papers had been found which--which threw any light----

Dr. Kennedy, noting the nervous intertwining of her fingers, made a mental note of bromide for the prescription he intended writing, and then set himself quietly to tell her all he knew, just as if he were exhibiting another sedative. The somewhat romantic aspects of the case had evidently excited her imagination, and it would do her good to talk over it soberly.

"Then there were no other papers, after all," she said, with a sigh of relief. "You seemed surprised at the time, I remember, but now you are satisfied."

"I must be--no one could have taken them, and I certainly did not drop anything from my pocket when I went to fetch help, for I have been over the ground this morning. Besides, she only gave me two things--the envelope and something else. I certainly thought it was a bundle of letters, but I must have been mistaken."

"But there was no entry in the register, was there, which would account for old Peggy's anxiety that you should have it?" persisted Mrs. Vane, with a little hurry in her breath.

"None. Except that she had something on her mind always, I feel sure, regarding that unfortunate daughter of hers. She never behaved naturally to little Paul; and now, of course, it is doubtful if he will get the money. I must see the lawyers about it as I go through Edinburgh. If old Peggy had only lived to make a will----"

Mrs. Vane rose from her pillow and looked him full in the face, with a startled expression.

"You mean she would have had the power to leave it to him."

"Yes, apparently she would have, to judge by the will. You had better lie down again, Mrs. Vane! So--quite flat, please."

He chose out the smelling salts unerringly, as if he knew all about such things, from the bevy of silver-topped bottles on the dressing-table, and when he saw her colour returning, went back with the same certainty, apparently, of finding sal volatile or red lavender.

"Chloral!" he said, turning to her quickly as he smelt at a bottle. "You mustn't take that, Mrs. Vane. I forbid it, and I expect you to obey orders."

A touch of her own airy, charming wilfulness showed on her face as she looked at him while he stood dropping something into a glass for her to take. "I won't--not while you are here."

"Nor when I am gone, I hope. It isn't worth it--Pauline."

She gave him an odd look, then buried her face in the pillow and began to sob. Inarticulate, hysterical sobbing about Pauline--or was it Paul? Dr. Kennedy could not be sure.

"She is utterly upset; a case of complete nervous prostration," he said, as he was leaving, in answer to Captain Macleod's eager inquiries. "I don't wonder, for she works herself to death to make things pleasant for everybody. Don't let them worry her by going to sit with her, and that sort of thing. She is best alone. Or, if you could spare ten minutes or so this afternoon--I've told her to get up for a little change--she would like it, I know. She is very fond of you."

"We are such old friends," put in Paul, quickly. "And she has sate up with me often enough, God knows. I shouldn't be alive but for her. Of course, I will go."

"Talk of old times, then. It will make her forget the present, and that will be good for her."

So Paul went up with the afternoon tea tray and a bunch of jasmine, which he had been down to the garden to gather, and talked about old times in his softest voice, while Mrs. Vane sate and listened in the big chair by the window. And she cheered up so much under the treatment, that he sent the maid down for another plate of bread and butter.

It was very pleasant, but whether, as the unconscious suggester of the entertainment had said, it was good for her, was another matter, though, in a way, it relieved her nervous strain by making her more certain of what she was going to do. Of one thing there could be no doubt--the man who sate and talked to her, who forestalled her every want, must not suffer. Paul must be saved, somehow, and so, for the present, no one must know of that marriage certificate hidden in her dressing-case, which would, if it were genuine, give Gleneira to Peggy Duncan's grandson. Perhaps, after all, he would get his father's money, and if so, a hundred thousand pounds would be enough for anyone. Why should he rob Paul--her handsome, kindly Paul--of his birthright? Of course, in one way that would make matters smooth for her, since his engagement would certainly come to an end if he ceased to be a Highland proprietor. The Woodwards would, in that case, never hear of its being fulfilled. But it would give him such pain, and she was not selfish enough to gain her own pleasure at such a price, if it could be avoided. She was Paul's friend, his true friend, and she would take the responsibility of concealing this thing for the present; for ever, if need be. And then she gave up thinking, and took to dreaming of what life would be if they two lived at Gleneira. They would not be dull; men were never dull with her. He had not been dull that afternoon when they had sate and talked. Ah! how pleasant it had been, and surely to gain such content, both for him and for her, it was allowable to conceal those letters for a time--only for a time?

And while they were talking upstairs, Lady George had been entertaining a solitary visitor in the drawing-room, the rest of the party having gone out to take luncheon to the shooters on the hill. This was the Reverend James Gillespie--who had come with a strict attention to those trivialities of etiquette, which the Bishop had often assured him should be a distinguishing mark of those set up to teach the people--to inquire for the ladies after their fatigues. Now, Lady George was fatigued, hence, indeed, the fact that she had remained at home; and there is no doubt that she said, "Bother the man!" when first informed that the Reverend James was in the drawing-room. Then the love of posing came to her rescue. Here she was, alone, wearied out, unable to go forth and enjoy herself. What an opportunity for patient unselfishness! Besides, it was tea-time; she could have the children down and provoke that ardent admiration of her system which the Reverend James extended to everything at Gleneira.

"Tell nurse to let Miss Eve and Master Adam have tea with me," she said, as she swept downstairs. "I expect Master Blasius has not been a good boy; in fact, I am sure he hasn't, but he can have jam in the nursery. He will like that just as well."

Unfortunately, it is never safe for a grown-up to predicate the thoughts of a child. Perhaps, because something may strike the opening mind as novel, or desirable, which the mature one has tried and found wanting. Be that as it may, ten minutes after Adam and Eve had left the nursery spick and span, hand-in-hand, Blazes was captured for the fifth time on his way down the stairs in that curious succession of bumps and slides, which was his favourite method of progression. And the look of determination on his round, broad, good-natured face was not in the least shaken by nurse's vehement upbraidings.

"There ain't no use talkin' to 'im when he's like that," she said, aside to Mary; "and he ain't a bit cross or naughty--look at 'im smilin' be'ind my back--but my tea I must 'ave in peace an' quiet. So into bed 'e goes, tucked up without 'is nighty, an' a bit of sugar to suck. The joke of it'll keep 'im quiet a bit."

Apparently, it did, for he lay in the night nursery chuckling to himself, that "Blazeths wath a pore 'ickle beggar boy wif no thoes or 'tockings, an' no thirt to hith back," until nurse, sympathising with the sentimental Mary, forgot to be vigilant.

Meanwhile, Adam, in his green plush Vandyck suit, and Eve in a smock to match, were seated, with decorously still tan legs, at the tea-table, eating thin bread-and-butter daintily.

"It is most gratifying," the Reverend James was remarking, in his most professional manner, "to--to see such good children as yours, Lady George. It is a lesson in the art of education."

"It is most gratifying to hear one's parish priest say so, Mr. Gillespie," she replied, with meek dignity; "but, as you know, I make it a study. I devote myself to them. I feel that one cannot too soon recognise the sanctity, the individuality of the soul, the human rights which these little ones share equally with us. Equally, did I say? Nay, in fuller measure, since they are nearer Heaven than we are--since they are pure and innocent, with better rights than ours to happiness."

The Reverend James cleared his throat. There was a flavour of unorthodoxy about the latter part of these remarks which, in the present position of spiritual authority to which Lady George had exalted him, he could scarcely pass over.

"It is a fallen humanity we must not forget, my dear lady," he began; "these children----"

Lady George's maternal pride flashed up; besides she was beginning to get a little tired of the Reverend James.

"I see very few signs of fallen humanity about mine," she interrupted.

"But, my dear lady, you must remember also that your children have privileges--they are baptized and regenerate--they are not in a state of nature--Good Heavens, my dear lady! what is the matter?"

The Gorgon's stony stare was genial in comparison with poor Blanche's look of petrification.

"Blasius!" she cried, starting to her feet, "go away! go away at once."

But Blasius had no such intention. He advanced with a confidential nod to his mother, a perfect picture of sturdy, healthy, naked babyhood; beautiful in its curves and dimples.

"Blazeth's a pore 'ickle beggar boy wif no thoes or 'tockings or---- Oh, mummie! that tickles awful!"

The mellow chant ended abruptly, for Lady George had dashed at him with an Algerian antimacassar, and now held him in her arms, trying hard to be grave. She might have succeeded but for the Reverend James's face of bland concern. That finished her, and she gave up the struggle in a peal of laughter, in which her companion tried to join feebly.

"Bring Master Blasius' flannel dressing-gown, please," she said, when nurse, full of explanations and excuses, flew in in a flurry; "that and the antimacassar will keep him warm, and he can have his tea with me."

This incident, however, made it quite impossible for her to continue the rÔle she had been playing before. How could she? with Blasius huddled up on her lap, eating bread and jam between his attempts to count his bare toes; an arithmetical problem which he insisted on solving, despite her efforts with the antimacassar. Not that the necessity for change mattered, since she had a variety of other parts to fall back upon, and so, being slightly bored by the Reverend James's failure to respond, and evident disposition to remain the spiritual director, she assumed that of Great Lady and Helper-in-General to her world. In which character, she gave it as her opinion that all parish clergymen should be married--if only in order to make them understand children, and grasp the true bearings of the education question.

Whereat he blushed violently, and five minutes afterwards had confided his hopes regarding Marjory to his hostess's sympathising ears. Nothing could be more suitable, she told him; in fact, the idea had occurred to her before, and she had no doubt that he would bring his suit to a successful issue. Only, as a woman of the world who had seen more of life than he had, she would advise a little boldness, a trifle more self-assertion. His position, she said, was really an excellent one on the whole, and she need hardly say that both she and her brother would welcome Mrs. Gillespie as one of themselves.

So, with a complete reversal of their mutual positions, they parted, and the Reverend James as he walked home, full of blushes and budding hopes, told himself that since Lady George agreed with the Bishop it was time he bestirred himself. The picnic at the old burying-ground would afford him an excellent opportunity of proposing, and if he made up his mind definitely on that point, it would make him less nervous.

So when he reached home he went to the calendar of the daily lesson, which hung by his bed, and ticked off the five days remaining to him, just as schoolboys tick off their holidays. Five days--and then--yes! then he would ask Marjory to marry him.