They were at Hartledon alone:  that is, without the countess-dowager.  That respected lady, though not actually domiciled with them during the past twelve-month, had paid them three long visits.  She was determined to retain her right in the household—­if right it could be called.  The dowager was by far too wary to do otherwise; and her behaviour to Anne was exceedingly mild.  But somehow she contrived to retain, or continually renew, her evil influence over the children; though so insidiously, that Lady Hartledon could never detect how or when it was done, or openly meet it.  Neither could she effectually counteract it.  So surely as the dowager came, so surely did the young boy and his sister become unruly with their step-mother; ill-natured and rude.  Lady Hartledon was kind, judicious, and good; and things would so far be remedied during the crafty dowager’s absences, as to promise a complete cure; but whenever she returned the evil broke out again.  Anne was sorely perplexed.  She did not like to deny the children to their grandmother, who was more nearly related to them than she herself; and she could only pray that time would bring about some remedy.  The dowager passed her time pretty equally between their house and her son’s.  Lord Kirton had not married again, owing, perhaps, to the watch and ward kept over him.  But as soon as he started off to the Continent, or elsewhere, where she could not follow him, then off she came, without notice, to England and Lord Hartledon’s.  And Val, in his good-nature, bore the infliction passively so long as she kept civil and peaceable.

In this also her husband’s behaviour puzzled Anne.  Disliking the dowager beyond every other created being, he yet suffered her to indulge his children; and if any little passage-at-arms supervened, took her part rather than his wife’s.

“I cannot understand you, Val,” Anne said to him one day, in tones of pain.  “You are not as you used to be.”  And his only answer was to strain his wife to his bosom with an impassioned gesture of love.

But these were only episodes in their generally happy life.  Never more happy, more free from any external influence, than when Thomas Carr arrived there on this identical Saturday.  He went in unexpectedly:  and Val’s violet eyes, beautiful as ever, shone out their welcome; and Anne, who happened to have her baby on her lap, blushed and smiled, as she held it out for the barrister’s inspection.

“I dare not take it,” said he.  “You would be up in arms if it were dropped.  What is its name?”

“Reginald.”

A little while, and she carried the child away, leaving them alone.  Mr. Carr declined refreshment for the present; and he and Val strolled out arm-in-arm.

“I have brought you an item of news, Hartledon.  Gorton has turned up.”

“Not Gordon?”

“No.  And what’s more, Gorton never was Gordon.  You were right, and I was wrong.  I would have bet a ten-pound note—­a great venture for a barrister—­that the men were the same; never, in point of fact, had a doubt of it.”