e past is useless. Much of what has occurred here is
plainly irreparable; I will think what can be done for the future.
As for my relation to you, it rests with you to say whether it can be
amended. I recognize that you have just cause of complaint.'

What invincible pride there was in the man's very surrender! But Elsmere
was not repelled by it. He knew that in their hour together the Squire
had _felt_. His soul had lost its bitterness. The dead and their wrong
were with God.

He took the Squire's outstretched hand, grasping it cordially, a pure,
unworldly dignity in his whole look and bearing.

'Let us be friends, Mr. Wendover. It will be a great comfort to us--my
wife and me. Will you remember us both very kindly to Mrs. Darcy?'

Commonplace words, but words that made an epoch in the life of both. In
another minute the Squire, on horse-back, was trotting along the side
road leading to the Hall, and Robert was speeding home to Catherine as
fast as his long legs could carry him.

She was waiting for him on the steps, shading her eyes against the
unwonted sun. He kissed her with the spirits of a boy and told her all,
his news.

Catherine listened bewildered, not knowing what to say or how all
at once to forgive, to join Robert in forgetting. But that strange
spiritual glow about him was not to be withstood. She threw her arms
about him at last with a half sob,--

'Oh, Robert--yes! Dear Robert--thank God!'

'Never think any more,' he said at last, leading her in from the little
hall, 'of What has been, only of what shall be! Oh, Catherine, give me
some tea; and never did I see anything so tempting as that armchair.'

'He sank down into it, and when she put his breakfast beside him she saw
with a start that he was fast asleep. The wife stood and watched him,
the signs of fatigue round eyes and mouth, the placid expression, and
her face was soft with tenderness and joy. Of course--of course, even
that hard man must love him. Who could help it? My Robert!'

And so now in this disguise, now in that, the supreme hour of
Catherine's life stole on and on toward her.

CHAPTER XXII.

As may be imagined, the 'Churton Advertiser' did not find its way to
Murewell. It was certainly no pressure of social disapproval that made
the Squire go down to Mile End in that winter's dawn. The county might
talk, or the local press might harangue, till Doomsday, and Mr. Wendover
would either know nothing or care less.

Still h