THERE was no obstacle to the speedy departure of Romayne and his wife from Vange Abbey. The villa at Highgate — called Ten Acres Lodge, in allusion to the measurement of the grounds surrounding the house — had been kept in perfect order by the servants of the late Lady Berrick, now in the employment of her nephew.

On the morning after their arrival at the villa, Stella sent a note to her mother. The same afternoon, Mrs. Eyrecourt arrived at Ten Acres — on her way to a garden-party. Finding the house, to her great relief, a modern building, supplied with all the newest comforts and luxuries, she at once began to plan a grand party, in celebration of the return of the bride and bridegroom.

“I don’t wish to praise myself,” Mrs. Eyrecourt said; “but if ever there was a forgiving woman, I am that person. We will say no more, Stella, about your truly contemptible wedding — five people altogether, including ourselves and the Lorings. A grand ball will set you right with society, and that is the one thing needful. Tea and coffee, my dear Romayne, in your study; Coote’s quadrille band; the supper from Gunter’s, the grounds illuminated with colored lamps; Tyrolese singers among the trees, relieved by military music — and, if there are any African or other savages now in London, there is room enough in these charming grounds for encampments, dances, squaws, scalps, and all the rest of it, to end in a blaze of fireworks.”

A sudden fit of coughing seized her, and stopped the further enumeration of attractions at the contemplated ball. Stella had observed that her mother looked unusually worn and haggard, through the disguises of paint and powder. This was not an uncommon result of Mrs. Eyrecourt’s devotion to the demands of society; but the cough was something new, as a symptom of exhaustion.

“I am afraid, mamma, you have been overexerting yourself,” said Stella. “You go to too many parties.”

“Nothing of the sort, my dear; I am as strong as a horse. The other night, I was waiting for the carriage in a draught (one of the most perfect private concerts of the season, ending with a delightfully naughty little French play)— and I caught a slight cold. A glass of water is all I want. Thank you. Romayne, you are looking shockingly serious and severe; our ball will cheer you. If you would only make a bonfire of all those horrid books, you don’t know how it would improve your spirits. Dearest Stella, I will come and lunch here to-morrow — you are within such a nice easy drive from town — and I’ll bring my visiting-book, and settle about the invitations and the day. Oh, dear me, how late it is. I have nearly an hour’s drive before I get to my garden party. Good-by, my turtle doves good-by.”

She was stopped, on the way to her carriage, by another fit of coughing. But she still persisted in making light of it. “I’m as strong as a horse,” she repeated, as soon as she could speak — and skipped into the carriage like a young girl.

“Your mother is killing herself,” said Romayne.

“If I could persuade her to stay with us a little while,” Stella suggested, “the rest and quiet might do wonders for her. Would you object to it, Lewis?”

“My darling, I object to nothing — except giving a ball and burning my books. If your mother will yield on these two points, my house is entirely at her disposal.”

He spoke playfully — he looked his best, since he had separated himself from the painful associations that were now connected with Vange Abbey. Had “the torment of the Voice” been left far away in Yorkshire? Stella shrank from approaching the subject in her husband’s presence, knowing that it must remind him of the fatal duel. To her surprise, Romayne himself referred to the General’s family.

“I have written to Hynd,” he began. “Do you mind his dining with us to-day?”

“Of course not!”

“I want to hear if he has anything to tell me — about those French ladies. He undertook to see them, in your absence, and to ascertain —” He was unable to overcome his reluctance to pronounce the next words. Stella was quick to understand what he meant. She finished the sentence for him.

“Yes,” he said, “I wanted to hear how the boy is getting on, and if there is any hope of curing him. Is it —” he trembled as he put the question —“Is it hereditary madness?”

Feeling the serious importance of concealing the truth, Stella only replied that she had hesitated to ask if there was a taint of madness in the family. “I suppose,” she added, “you would not like to see the boy, and judge of his chances of recovery for yourself?”

“You suppose?” he burst out, with sudden anger. “You might be sure. The bare idea of seeing him turns me cold. Oh, when shall I forget! when shall I forget! Who spoke of him first?” he said, with renewed irritability, after a moment of silence. “You or I?”

“It was my fault, love — he is so harmless and so gentle, and he has such a sweet face — I thought it might soothe you to see him. Forgive me; we will never speak of him again. Have you any notes for me to copy? You know, Lewis, I am your secretary now.”

So she led Romayne away to his study and his books. When Major Hynd arrived, she contrived to be the first to see him. “Say as little as possible about the General’s widow and her son,” she whispered.

The Major understood her. “Don’t be uneasy, Mrs. Romayne,” he answered. “I know your husband well enough to know what you mean. Besides, the news I bring is good news.”

Romayne came in before he could speak more particularly. When the servants had left the room, after dinner, the Major made his report.

“I am going to agreeably surprise you,” he began. “All responsibility toward the General’s family is taken off our hands. The ladies are on their way back to France.”

Stella was instantly reminded of one of the melancholy incidents associated with her visit to Camp’s Hill. “Madame Marillac spoke of a brother of hers who disapproved of the marriage,” she said. “Has he forgiven her?”

“That is exactly what he has done, Mrs. Romayne. Naturally enough, he felt the disgrace of his sister’s marriage to such a man as the General. Only the other day he heard for the first time that she was a widow — and he at once traveled to England. I bade them good-by yesterday — most happily reunited — on their journey home again. Ah, I thought you would be glad, Mrs. Romayne, to hear that the poor widow’s troubles are over. Her brother is rich enough to place them all in easy circumstances — he is as good a fellow as ever lived.”

“Have you seen him?” Stella asked, eagerly.

“I have been with him to the asylum.&r............