She had deceived the man who had married her in such adoring good faith—­granted; but when he had reconciled himself to as much of the cheat as he must know, she meant to make him happy—­so happy that he should not regret what he had done.  Though she was no marquise, only plain Madame de Montfort—­so far she must confess for policy’s sake, and to forestall discovery by ruder means, but what remained beyond she must keep secret as the grave, trusting to favorable fortune and man’s honor for her safety—­though the story of the fraudulent trustee was untrue, and she never had more money than the three hundred pounds brought in her box wherewith to plant her roots in the North Aston soil—­though all the Lionnet bills were yet to be paid, and her husband must pay them, with awkward friends in London occasionally turning up to demand substantial sops, else they would show their teeth unpleasantly,—­still, she would get his forgiveness, and she would make him happy.

And she would be good to Leam.  She would be so patient, forbearing, tender, she would at last force the child to love her.  It was a new luxury to this woman, who had knocked about the world so long and so disreputably, to feel safe and able to be good.  She wondered what it would be like as time went on—­if the rest which she felt now at the cessation of the struggle and the consciousness of her security would become monotonous or be always restful.  At all events, she knew that she was happy for the day, and she trusted to her own tact and management to make the future as fair as the present.

The home-coming was triumphant.  Because the rector was inwardly grieved at the loss of his ewe-lamb—­for he had lost her in that special sense of spiritual proprietorship which had been his—­he was determined to make a demonstration of his joy.  He and Mrs. Birkett meant to stand by Mrs. Dundas as they had stood by Madame la Marquise de Montfort, and to publish their partisanship broadly.  When, therefore, the travelers returned to North Aston, they found the rector and his wife waiting to receive them at their own door.  Over the gate was an archway of evergreens with “Welcome!” in white chrysanthemums, and the posts were wreathed with boughs and ribbons, but leaving “Virginia Cottage” in its glossy evidence of the new regime.  The drive was bordered all through with flowers from the rectory garden, and Lionnet too had been ransacked, and the hall was festooned from end to end with garlands, like a transformation-scene in a pantomime.  One might have thought it the home-coming of a young earl with his girl-bride, rather than that of a middle-aged widower of but moderate means with his second wife, one of whose past homes had been in St. John’s Wood, and one of her many names Mrs. Harrington.

But it pleased the good souls who thus displayed their sympathy, and it gratified those for whom it had all been done; and both husband and wife expressed their gratitude warmly, and lived up to the occasion in the emotion of the moment.