He could not realise that Irene had ever been Warren Courtly's wife. He seemed to have possessed her ever since she came to Hazelwell on the death of her father. She was his Irene, always had been, and always would be for ever more.

And Irene was very happy. She knew her brief life with Warren had been all a mistake. She regretted his death, and the manner of it, but it had not blighted her life. She had known of people who had mourned distractedly the loss of a dear one, and in a few months had changed the garments of widowhood for those of marriage.

In a few years Warren would be merely a memory, nothing more, and it had been his own fault. Having neglected her during life, it was not reasonable to expect he would be reverenced when dead.

She knew she had always loved Ulick, although she had been unaware of it, and now the realisation of her happiness was at hand.

She was to remain at Hazelwell for the night, and when the other guests departed the Squire was told what had happened.

"I knew it was coming," he said, joyfully. "I saw it in your faces. Come and kiss me, Irene; you are not jealous, are you, Ulick?"

"Not at all," he replied, laughing; "but I envy you."

"What!" he exclaimed. "Not had one yet?"

"Dozens," whispered Irene, in his ear, and the Squire laughed heartily.

"You recollect this room when I sat up all night waiting for Ulick to return?" said the Squire.

"Yes," replied Irene; and then she added, "it is the very day."

"So it is, my child," he replied, "and I take it as a happy omen for your married life."

In the summer, when the trees were full of leaf, and the birds carolled their sweetest and best, Ulick and Irene were married. It was a quiet wedding, and they went abroad for some considerable time. On their return they resided at Anselm Manor, and the Squire divided his time between Hazelwell and their home.

Ulick had learned from his wife that she knew all about Janet and Warren, and it was not long before they found out that the Squire was in possession of the facts. As for Janet, she accepted the position of lady's maid to Irene when Mary Marley and Bob Heather were married. This bold move on Irene's part effectually silenced the gossips, who clung to the belief that Ulick was the cause of Janet's trouble, and that they had run away together. It was acknowledged that Mrs. Maynard would never have had Janet in her service had such been the case.

Happiness reigned supreme at Anselm Manor, and when the Squire heard of the arrival of a son, and that he was a grandfather, he gave a whoop of joy that startled the decorous quietude of Hazelwell.

"And if it isn't on the very day, the same day that Ulick left me, and the day on which Irene consented to be his wife."

The new arrival made the Squire feel young again, and no signs were wanting that the little one would be a prime favourite with him.

Years soon roll by and time never stands still. The child grew into a fine boy, and there were others to keep him company. There was every sign that Anselm Manor would be the home of many happy children. The laughter of youth rang through the old rooms, and echoed down the pa.s.sages and along the walls, where monks and friars had revelled and prayed and told their beads hundreds of years before. Anselm Manor had taken on a new lease of life; a new spirit was infused into it--the buoyant spirit of youth.

Ulick and his wife were often seen in the hunting field, and occasionally at some of the princ.i.p.al race meetings; and there was much rejoicing at Hazelwell when Fred May pulled off the Jockey Club Stakes with the colt out of Honeysuckle, that had only just escaped being born nearly "a year old."

The Saint was making a name at the stud, and his early foals were promising, but none of them were the colour of their sire.

Ulick, however, wanted a grey by him, and in due time got his wish, and a promising youngster he looked.

Janet did not forget Mrs. Hoffman. The woman had been kind to her in her way, and she often received a present from the Manor. As for Felix Hoffman, he got into trouble with the police, and had to leave the country in a hurry, only just escaping the meshes of the law, in which he thoroughly deserved to be entangled.

Squire Maynard, so everyone said, had grown young since his son's marriage with Irene, and a fine, n.o.ble country gentleman he looked as he walked or rode, with his grandson on a cob at his side.

Young Ulick was very like the Squire, who saw his own youth reflected in him, and indulged him accordingly.

Irene, as a mother, was far more attractive than she had ever been before, and her husband and children adored her. They were proud of her good looks and of the admiration she invariably excited.

Ulick sometimes thought of that fatal leap Warren Courtly took when he pa.s.sed Glen church, and saw again the red-coated figure on the cold slab near the wall, but the melancholy remembrance quickly vanished. There is too much sunshine in his life to be hidden by pa.s.sing clouds, and happiness leaves no room for discord. Everything is in harmony; there are no jarring notes; and long may it be so with them all.

THE END.