And Lord Hartledon was a free man still, and stood well with the world.  Whatever the mysterious accusation brought against him had been, it produced no noisy effects as yet; in popular phrase, it had come to nothing.  As yet; always as yet.  Whether he had shot a man, or robbed a bank, or fired a church, the incipient accusation died away.  But the fear, let it be of what nature it would, never died away in his mind; and he lived as a man with a sword suspended over his head.  Moreover, the sword, in his own imagination, was slipping gradually from its fastenings; his days were restless, his nights sleepless, an inward fever for ever consumed him.

As none knew better than Thomas Carr.  There were two witnesses who could bring the facts home to Lord Hartledon; and, so far as was known, only two:  the stranger, who had paid him a visit, and the man Gordon, or Gorton.  The latter was the more dangerous; and they had not yet been able to trace him.  Mr. Carr’s friend, Detective Green, had furnished that gentleman with a descriptive bill of Gordon of the mutiny:  “a young, slight man, with light eyes and fair hair.”  This did not answer exactly to the Gorton who had played his part at Calne; but then, in regard to the latter, there remained the suspicion that the red hair was false.  Whether it was the same man or whether it was two men—­if the phrase may be allowed—­neither of them, to use Detective Green’s expressive words, turned up.  And thus the months had passed on, with nothing special to mark them.  Captain Kirton had been conveyed abroad for the winter, and they had good news of him; and the countess-dowager was inflicting a visit upon one of her married daughters in Germany, the baroness with the unpronounceable name.

And the matter had nearly faded from the mind of Lady Hartledon.  It would quite have faded, but for certain interviews with Thomas Carr at his chambers, when Hartledon’s look of care precluded the idea that they could be visits of mere idleness or pleasure; and for the secret trouble that unmistakably sat on her husband like an incubus.  At times he would moan in his sleep as one in pain; but if told of this, had always some laughing answer ready for her—­he had dreamed he was fighting a lion or being tossed by a bull.

This was the pleasantest phase of Lady Hartledon’s married life.  Her health did not allow of her entering into gaiety; and she and her husband passed their time happily together.  All her worst qualities seemed to have left her, or to be dormant; she was yielding and gentle; her beauty had never been so great as now that it was subdued; her languor was an attraction, her care to please being genuine; and they were sufficiently happy.  They were in their town-house now, not having gone back to Hartledon.  A large, handsome house, very different from the hired one they had first occupied.

In January the baby was born; and Maude’s eyes glistened with tears of delight because it was a boy:  a little heir to the broad lands of Hartledon.  She was very well, and it seemed that she could never tire of fondling her child.