The happiness he had dreamed of was given to him; nay, he knew joy and tenderness even more high and sweet than his fancy had painted.  As Camylott had been in his childhood so he saw it again—­the most beauteous home in England and the happiest, its mistress the fairest woman and the most nobly loving.  As his own father and mother had found life a joyful thing and their world full of warm hearts and faithful friends, so he and she he loved, found it together.  The great house was filled once more with guests and pleasures as in the olden time, the stately apartments were thrown open for entertainment, gay cavalcades came and went from town, the forests were hunted, the moors shot over by sportsmen, and the lady who was hostess and chatelaine won renown as well as hearts, since each party of guests she entertained went back to the homes they came from, proclaiming to all her wit and gracious charm.

She rode to hunt and leapt hedges as she had done when she had been Clo Wildairs; she walked the moors with the sportsmen, her gun over her shoulder, she sparkling and showing her white teeth like a laughing gipsy; and when she so walked, the black rings of her hair blown loose about her brow, her cheeks kissed fresh crimson by the wet wind, and turned her eyes upon my lord Duke near her and their looks met, the man who beheld saw lovers who set his own heart beating.

“But is it true,” asked once the great French lady who had related the history of the breaking of the horse, Devil, “is it true that a poor man killed himself in despair on her last marriage, and that she lives a secret life of penance to atone—­and wears a hair shirt, and peas in her beautiful satin shoes, and does deeds of mercy in the dark places of the big black English city?”

“A man, mad with jealous rage of her, disappeared from sight,” said an English lady present.  “And he might well have drowned himself from disappointment that she would not wed him and pay his debts; but ’twas more like he fled England to escape his creditors.  And ’tis true she does many noble deeds in secret; but if they be done in penance for Sir John Oxon, she is a lady with a conscience that is tender indeed.”

That her conscience was a strangely tender thing was a thought which moved one man’s heart strongly many a time.  Scarce a day passed in which her husband did not mark some evidence of this—­hear some word spoken, see some deed done, almost, it seemed, as if in atonement for imagined faults hid in her heart.  He did not remark this because he was unused to womanly mercifulness; his own mother’s life had been full of gentle kindness to all about her, of acts of charity and goodness, but in the good deeds of this woman, whom he so loved, he observed an eagerness which was almost a passion.  She had changed no whit in the brilliance of her spirit; in the world she reigned a queen as she had ever done; wheresoever she moved, life and gayety seemed to follow, whether it was at the Court, in the town, or the country; but in both town and country he found she did strange charities, and seemed to search for creatures she might aid in such places as other women had not courage to dive into.