A woman once told me that she always felt inclined to cry at weddings and laugh at funerals. I can understand it. There is something in the former exquisitely, though covertly, pathetic; whilst in the latter case tears are so obviously the correct thing, that sometimes they absolutely refuse to come. I feel certain that the tears were not far from Sir Francis's eyes as he shook hands with us in the churchyard. Perhaps they were not far from mine. There were presents from nearly every one at the Court, and a sealed envelope from Sir Francis, which, when we opened it, contained a cheque for a thousand pounds. I had offered to make over to Marian half of my little income, but Mr. Holdern was resolute, and even peremptory, in his refusal. They would have a good deal more money now than they could spend in their quiet country home, and eventually, feeling that Holdern was sincere in his refusal, I had given way. Money would certainly be useful, nay, necessary, for me in carrying out the course of action on which I had decided. And so I kept it. One day longer I had to spend at Devereux, and a dreary day it was. All the morning I was busy balancing accounts with the solicitor to the estate, and in the afternoon I finished my packing. In the evening, after dinner, I wrote a note to Sir Francis, bidding him farewell. He would understand, I said, why I did not come to him personally. An oath was not a thing to be broken, and I had sworn that over the threshold of Devereux Court I would not pass, save with my father. So I was compelled to write him instead, but I did my best to make my letter as cordial and grateful as possible, and within an hour an answer came back, short and informal. "Farewell, Hugh, my boy. God bless you, wherever you may go, and remember always that though you may call yourself Hugh Arbuthnot, you are still a Devereux of Devereux, and this place is your home whenever you care to make it so.--Ever yours, "FRANCIS DEVEREUX." Through many lands and many years I carried with me that half-sheet of thick, heavily-crested notepaper. And yellow with age it reposes now in the secret drawer of my cabinet. I sent no farewell to Maud. It were better not. My Maud she could never be, though never another should take her place. Me she would soon forget; I was not vain enough to think otherwise for a moment. Only yesterday I had seen her riding with that ill-bred prig, Lord Annerley, the son of a lawyer peer, with all his father's innate vulgarity, and never a feather's weight of his brains. Let her have him if she would, him or any other--or let her flirt with him, lead him on by the beauty of her dazzling fair face and the glances of her deep blue eyes. Let her flirt with him, and then throw him over with a light laugh as very likely she would have done me. A fig for all women! An ounce of philosophy would weigh them all down in the scales of reason. But at twenty-four that ounce is hard to get! CHAPTER XXIX