it was midsummer, and miss berengaria's garden was a sight. such splendid colors, such magnificent blossoms, such triumphs of the floricultural art, had never been seen outside the walls of a flower show. the weather was exceedingly warm, and on this particular day there was not a cloud in the sky. miss plantagenet pottered about her garden, clipping and arranging as usual, and seemed to be in the very best of spirits. and well she might be, for this was a red-letter day with her.

under the shade of a large elm-tree sat durham, in the most unprofessional tweed suit, and beside him, alice, radiant in a white dress. she looked particularly pretty, and her face was a most becoming color. every now and then she would glance at the watch on her wrist, and durham laughed as he saw how frequently she referred to it.

"the train won't be here for another hour," he said, smiling. "you will see bernard soon enough, miss malleson."

"oh, dear me," sighed alice, "can i ever see him soon enough? it seems like eleven years instead of eleven months since he went away. i wish he hadn't gone."

"well," said durham, following with his eyes the spare little figure of miss berengaria flitting about amongst the flowers, "i didn't approve of it at the time, and i told conniston so. but now i think it was just as well bernard did keep to his original intention and go to the front. it is advisable there should be an interval between the new life and the old."

"the new life?" asked alice, flushing.

"he is coming home to be married to you," said durham.

"and with a bullet in his arm," sighed alice. "i shall have to nurse him back to health before we can marry."

"miss randolph will be occupied in the same pleasing task with conniston," replied durham, lazily, "and i envy both my friends."

"you needn't," laughed miss malleson, opening her sunshade which cast a delicate pink hue on her cheeks. "poor bernard has been wounded and lord conniston has been down with enteric fever."

"i am glad they have got off so easily. bernard might have been shot, you know."

alice shuddered and grew pale. "don't, mr. durham!"

"that was why i feared about his going out," said he. "i thought it would be a pity, after all he passed through, that he should be killed by a boer bullet. but he has only temporarily lost the use of his arm; he has been mentioned for gallantry in the despatches; and he is coming home to marry the most charming girl in the world—i quote from his own letter," finished durham, smiling.

"and lord conniston?"

"he is coming also to marry miss randolph. both weddings will take place on the same day, and conniston [pg 311]has escaped the dangers of the war with a slight touch of fever. but why tell you all this—you know it as well as i do."

"what's that?" asked miss berengaria, coming up to the pair.

"i was only discussing miss malleson's future life," said durham.

"ah," sighed the old lady, sitting down. "what i shall do without her i don't know."

"dear aunt," said alice, kissing the faded cheek, "i shall not be far away. the hall is within visiting distance."

"that's all very well," said miss berengaria. "but bernard will want you all to himself, and small blame to him. what is the time?"

alice glanced at her watch. "it's nearly three, and the train arrives at half-past," she said. "oh, i wish we could meet them."

"not at all," rejoined miss berengaria, brusquely, "better wait here with lucy. she will be over soon. i don't want a scene of kissing and weeping on the platform. but, i must say, i am glad both those boys are back."

"you will have them as near neighbors, miss berengaria," said the lawyer. "bernard at gore hall and conniston at the castle."

"i hope he and lucy won't live there," said the old lady, rubbing her nose. "a dreadfully damp place. i went over there the other day to tell mrs. moon about jerry."

"have you had good reports of him?"

"so, so. the reformatory he was put into seems to be a good one, and the boys are well looked after. but jerry is a tree which will grow crooked. he seems to have been giving a lot of trouble."

"yet he was lucky to get off as he did," said durham. "the judge might have sent him to jail instead of into a reformatory."

"and he'll land in jail some day," said alice, shaking her head. "at least, bernard seems to think so."

"i fancy bernard is about right," replied durham. "the lad is a born criminal. i wonder how he inherited such a tainted nature."

miss berengaria sat up briskly. "i can tell you," she said. "mrs. moon informed me that her son—jerry's father—was a desperate scamp, and also that several of her husband's people had come to bad ends."

"to rope ends, i suppose, as jerry will come," said durham. "however, he is safe for the next three years in his reformatory. when he comes out, we will see what will happen. what about your other protégé, miss berengaria."

"michael gilroy?"

"yes. has he taken that name for good?"

"he has. it's the only name he is entitled to. how glad i am that the poor creature was acquitted after that dreadful trial. i am sure there is good in him."

"so bernard thought, and that was why he assisted him," said alice.

"i think you put in a good word for him, miss malleson."

alice assented. "i was sorry for the poor fellow. while i nursed him i saw much good in him. and, remember, that he had intended to tell me who he was when he arrived, only he was so ill."

"and when he saw that you fancied he was bernard, he accepted the situation," said durham, ironically. "i wonder he could have thought you so easily taken in, knowing that you knew bernard so intimately."

"well, i don't think he was quite himself during that illness," said alice, pensively. "had he been better, he would certainly have doubted the fact of aunty's and my beliefs. a few questions from me, and he would have been exposed, even had i truly believed he was bernard."

"and he must have wondered how you never put the questions."

"perhaps. but he thought i was considering his health. however, he spoke up well at the trial, and quite explained bernard's innocence."

durham shrugged his shoulders. "the serpent in the bamboo. he was forced to be honest at the trial for his own sake."

"don't be hard on him," said miss berengaria, suddenly. "i received a letter from him yesterday. he is doing very well in america, and with the money bernard gave him he has bought a farm. also, he hopes to marry."

"i wonder will he tell his future wife anything of his past life."

"not if he is wise," said durham, looking at alice, who had spoken. "by the way, miss berengaria, does he mention his mother?"

"no," replied the old lady, promptly. "drat you, durham! why should the boy mention his mother at this point? she has been dead all these months. poor soul! her end was a sad one. i never heard, though, of what poison she died."

"a romany poison they call drows," explained durham, quickly. "the gipsies use it to poison pigs."

"why do they wish to poison pigs?"

"because, if they kill a pig in that way, the farmer to whom it belongs, thinking the animal has died a natural death, gives it to the gipsies and they eat it."

"ugh!" miss berengaria shuddered. "i'll look well after my own pigs. so the poor creature killed herself with that drug?"

"i don't know that it is a drug," said durham. "i can't explain what it is. she hinted that i would know what drows meant before the end of the day, and i did. while i was telling inspector groom about her confession, she poisoned herself in my office. i thought she was asleep, but she evidently was watching for her opportunity to make away with herself."

"ugh!" said miss berengaria, again. "i wonder you can bear to sit in that office after such an occurrence."

"how lucky it was that she signed that confession before she died," was the remark made by alice.

"my dear young lady, she came especially to confess, so as to save her son. she would not have died until she did confess."

"and if she had not suffered from that incurable disease, i doubt if she would have committed suicide," said miss plantagenet.

"oh, i think so," said durham, reflectively. "after all, her confession meant hanging to her. she wished to escape the gallows."

"i am glad bernard did," said miss berengaria, emphatically; "even at the risk of all that scandal."

"it couldn't be kept out of the papers," said durham, with a shrug. "after all, bernard's character had to be fully cleansed. it was therefore necessary to tell the whole of beryl's plot, to produce michael as an example of what nature can do in the way of resemblances, and to supplement the whole with mrs. gilroy's confession."

"and a nice trouble there was over it," said the old lady, annoyed. "i believe bernard had a man calling on him who wished to write a play about the affair—a new kind of 'corsican brothers.'"

"or a new 'comedy of errors,'" said alice, smiling. "well, the public learned everything and were sorry for bernard. they cheered him when he left the court."

"and would have been quite as ready to hiss him had things turned out otherwise," snapped miss berengaria. "the man who should have suffered was that wretch beryl."

"we couldn't catch him," said durham. "victoria reached him on that very night, and he cleared without loss of time. of course, he was afraid of being accused of the crime, although he knew he was innocent, but, besides that, there was the conspiracy to get the estate by means of the false will. by the way, did mrs. moon say what had become of victoria?"

miss berengaria nodded. "victoria is down in devonshire with an aunt, and is being kept hard at work to take the bad out of her. i understand she still believes in jerry and will marry him when he comes out of the reformatory. he will then be of a marriageable age, the brat! but, regarding beryl, what became of him?"

"i never could find out," confessed durham.

"then i can tell you, durham. michael saw him in new york."

"where?"

"in some low slum, very ragged and poor. he didn't see michael, or he might have troubled him. he has taken to drink, i believe—beryl i mean—so some day he will die, and a nice fate awaits him where he will go," said miss berengaria, grimly.

durham rose and removed his straw hat. "well," said he, looking down on the two ladies, "the whole case is over and ended. i don't see why we should revive such very unpleasant memories. the past is past, so let it rest. bernard has the title and the money and——"

"here's lucy," said alice, rising. "dear girl, how sweet she looks!"

it was indeed lucy tripping across the lawn in the lightest of summer frocks. she looked charming, and greeted alice with a kiss. "i am so anxious," she whispered. "the train will be in soon."

"you are anxious to see conniston?" said miss berengaria.

"yes. and i am also anxious to hand the hall over to bernard. i have had a lot of trouble looking after it. haven't i, mr. durham?"

durham bowed. "you have been an admirable lady of the manor," he said. "but soon you will be lady conniston."

"and alice will be lady of the manor," laughed lucy. "oh, by the way, mr. durham, i forgot to tell you that signor tolomeo called at the hall yesterday. he thought bernard was back, and came to thank him for his allowing him an income."

"i thought he had gone back to italy," said durham.

"he is going next week, and talks of marriage."

"i don't envy his wife," said miss berengaria, rising. "girls, come into the house to see that everything is prepared for our heroes."

the girls laughed and tripped away. durham left the garden and drove to the station to fetch back conniston and bernard. they did not come by that train, however, much to the disappointment of those at the bower. it was seven before they arrived, and then the three ladies came out to meet them on the lawn.

"dear alice," said bernard, who had his arm in a sling, but otherwise looked what conniston called "fit!", "how glad i am to see you!"

"and you, lucy," said conniston, taking his sweetheart in his arms.

"really," cried miss berengaria, while durham stood by laughing, "it is most perplexing to assist at the meeting of a quartette of lovers. gore, how are you? conniston, your fever has pulled you down. i hope you have both sown your wild oats and have come back to settle for good."

"with the most charming of wives," said dick, bowing. "we have."

miss berengaria took durham's arm. "i must look out a wife for you, sir," she said, leading him to the house. "come away and let the turtle-doves coo alone. i expect dinner will be late."

and dinner was late. conniston, with lucy on his arm, strolled away in the twilight, but bernard and alice remained under the elm. when it grew quite dusk a red light was seen shining from the window of the drawing-room. gore pointed it out.

"that is the signal lucy used to set in the window at the hall to show that all was well," he said, putting his unwounded arm round the girl, "and now it gleams as a sign that there is a happy future for you and i, dearest."

"a red light is a danger signal," said alice, laughing.

"this is the exception that proves the rule," said gore. "it once led me into trouble, but now it shines upon me with my arms around you. thank heaven that, after all our trouble, we are at last in smooth waters. there's the gong for dinner."

alice laughed. "a prosaic ending to a pretty speech," she said.