“Well, you must have a curiosity!” he exclaimed, in his surprise.  “Just put those stones back in their places, and take yourself away.”

“You are right,” said the man.  “I have a curiosity in all that concerns the new lord.  But I am going away now.”

He leaped down as he spoke, and began to replace the stones.  Hedges went in again.

The carriage, waiting to convey them away, was already at the door, the impatient horses pawing the ground.  Maude changed her dress with all speed; and in driving down the road by starlight they overtook Thomas Carr, carrying his own portmanteau.  Lord Hartledon let down the window impulsively, as if he would have spoken, but seemed to recollect himself, and drew it up again.

“What is it?” asked Maude.

“Mr. Carr.”

It was the first word he had spoken to her since the ceremony.  His silence had frightened her:  what if he should resent on her the cruel words spoken by Dr. Ashton?  Sick, trembling, her beautiful face humble and tearful enough now, she bent it on his shoulder in a shower of bitter tears.

“Oh, Percival, Percival! surely you are not going to punish me for what has passed?”

A moment’s struggle with himself, and he turned and took both her hands in his.

“It may be that neither of us is free from blame, Maude, in regard to the past.  All we can now do, as it seems to me, is to forget it together, and make the best of the future.”

“And you will forget Anne Ashton?” she whispered.

“Of course I shall forget her.  I ask nothing better than to forget her from this moment.  I have made you my wife; and I will try to make your happiness.”

He bent and kissed her face.  Maude, in some restlessness, as it seemed, withdrew to her own corner of the carriage and cried softly; and Lord Hartledon let down the glass again to look back after Thomas Carr and his portmanteau in the starlight.

The only perfectly satisfied person was the countess-dowager.  All the little annoying hindrances went for nothing now that the desired end was accomplished, and she was in high feather when she bade adieu to the amiable young clergyman, who had to depart that night for his curacy, ten miles away, to be in readiness for the morrow’s services.

“If you please, my lady, Captain Kirton has been asking for you once or twice,” said Hedges, entering the dowager’s private sitting-room.

“Then Captain Kirton must ask,” retorted the dowager, who was sitting down to her letters, which she had left unopened since their arrival in the morning, in her anxiety for other interests.  “Hedges, I should like some supper:  I had only a scrambling sort of dinner.  You can bring it up here.  Something nice; and a bottle of champagne.”

Hedges withdrew with the order, and Lady Kirton applied herself to her letters.  The first she opened was from the daughter who had married the French count.  It told a pitiful tale of distress, and humbly craved to be permitted to come over on a fortnight’s visit, she and her two sickly children, “for a little change.”