"Yes, Diana, I am anxious personally to get the attested copy of our marriage certificate by the curate who married us, or a new one from the records. I shall fill up the time of absence by writing my will in your favour and the boys, to make all sure, for one never knows what may happen. When you see me again, Di, both documents shall be snug in this old pocket-book my father gave me."
And laughingly he tapped the heirloom, a handsome scarlet and gilt morocco book, on the boards of which were the Tresilian arms, surmounted by a griffin, stamped in gold.
"A strange little episode, almost a romantic one, has occurred during your absence, dear," said Mrs. Tresilian, for so we must now call her; "Arthur has quite fallen in love with a young lady, whom he has met riding her pony among the green lanes near Padstow."
"Arthur—that mere boy. It won't last long, Di."
"I hope not, and so will you, perhaps, when I tell who she is, and the risk we have run: Mona Tresilian!"
"What, my brother Basset's daughter?"
"Yes, Arthur."
"But the girl has gone to London with him, and that will end the affair. And now to-morrow, darling, I must leave you by the train for Falmouth, whence I shall take the steamer to Jersey. When I return the carriage shall be sent on here for you and our two dear little fellows, as I wish you to enter Restormel Court in the state that befits you, though my uncle's hatchment still hangs above its porte cochère."
Next day she was alone once more, and he had sailed hopefully on his errand.
The hour she had pined for during eighteen years—never so much as after the birth of her boy Arthur—when she should sink the dubious name of Lydiard and be acknowledged as the wife of Arthur Tresilian, had come at last, and a thrill of the purest joy filled her heart. In her anxiety for her children's future she felt small sorrow for the death of the octogenarian. How should she feel more?