CHAPTER XLI.

CONCLUSION.

There is little more to relate.

On just such a lovely June day as described above, and twelve months later, another fête took place. But this time it was at Court Netherleigh. Not an open-air fête, this, or one on a large scale, for only a few chosen friends had been invited to it.

In the morning, in Netherleigh Church, and at the hands of the good Rector, the infant heir of Court Netherleigh had been made one of Christ's fold.

Court Netherleigh was made their chief home by Sir Francis and his wife. Grosvenor Square was visited occasionally, but not for very long together. Adela's tastes had totally changed: fashion and frivolity no longer held chief places in her heart: higher aims and duties had superseded them. Lady Mary Cleveland herself was not so actively anxious for the welfare of the poor and distressed as was Adela, Netherleigh.

"Sweet are the uses of adversity, Which like a toad, ugly and venomous, Wears yet a precious jewel in its head."

As she stood this morning at the baptismal font, her child in the arms of Mr. Cleveland, tears of joy silently trickled down her face. Hardly a day or a night of this latter twelvemonth, but they had risen in gratitude, contrasting what had been with what was.

Lord and Lady Acorn were present; and Grace, who was godmother, held the baby in readiness for the clergyman. Mr. Howard had come down with Colonel and Lady Sarah Hope; Robert Dalrymple and Mary were there from Moat Grange, and the Rector's wife.

While walking back to Court Netherleigh after the ceremony, the party were joined by another guest--Sir Turtle Kite.

Sir Turtle's presence was quite unexpected. Deeply sensible of the service he once rendered them--for, had the little alderman chosen to be crusty then, where would Charles Cleveland have been, where Lady Adela?--the Acorn family had not dropped him with the passing moment. Neither had Sir Francis Netherleigh. On this particular day--a very splendid one in London--the knight chanced to think he should like to air himself in the sunbeams, and take a holiday. Remembering the standing invitation to Court Netherleigh--of which he had not yet availed himself--and knowing that Sir Francis was staying there and not in Grosvenor Square, Sir Turtle travelled down, and met the party as they were going home from church.

"Dear me I am very sorry," he cried, somewhat disconcerted. "I had no idea--I had better go home again."

"Not a bit of it," said Sir Francis, heartily, as he clasped his hand. "You are all the more welcome. I am sure you will like to join us in good wishes to my little boy. Adela will show him to you."

So Sir Turtle's beaming face made one at the luncheon-table, none so delighted as he. And he surreptitiously scribbled a note in his pocketbook to purchase the handsomest christening-cup that could be found for money.

Luncheon over, they went out into the charming sunshine, some strolling hither and thither, some taking refuge on the shaded benches under the trees. Adela gained possession of her baby in the nursery, and carried him out to show him to Sir Turtle. He was a fine little fellow of six weeks old, promising to be as noble-looking as his father, and certainly possessing his beautiful grey-blue eyes.

"What is its name?" asked Sir Turtle, venturing to pat the soft little cheek with his forefinger, and rather at a loss what to say, for he did not understand as much about babies as he did about tallow.

"Francis," answered Adela. "Francis Upton. I would not have had any name but Francis for the world, and my husband thought he would like to add Upton, in remembrance of Miss Upton who used to live here."

"Francis is a very nice name; better than mine," observed Sir Turtle, sitting down by Adela. "And who are its godfathers?" he resumed, still at sea as to the proper things to be said of a baby.

"My father is one, Mr. Howard the other. Sir Francis fixed upon papa, and I upon Mr. Howard. Formerly I used not to like Mr. Howard," ingenuously added Lady Adela, "but I have learnt his worth."

"Ay, a worthy man, my lady; first-rate in business. Talking of business," broke off the little alderman, glad, no doubt, to leave the subject of the baby, but none the less inopportunely, "do you chance to know what has become of a young fellow who got into some trouble at Grubb and Howard's--the Rector's son, yonder"--nodding towards Mr. Cleveland--"Charles, I think, his name was. I have often wished to ask about him."

Lady Adela bent over her child, as if to do something to its cap: her face had flushed blood-red.

"Charles Cleveland is in India," she said. "He is doing well, very well. My husband was--was very kind to him, and pushes him forward. He is kind to every one."

Rising rather abruptly from the bench, she gave the baby to the nurse and went into the house. Her mother, standing at one of the windows of the large drawing-room, turned round as she entered.

"What have you been doing to flush your face so, Adela?" called out my lady--for it was glowing still.

"Oh, nothing: the sun perhaps," answered Adela, carelessly.

"You were talking with Sir Turtle Kite."

"Yes, he was looking at baby, and asking me his name. I told him his father's--Francis."

"Ah," said Lady Acorn, with her irrepressible propensity for bringing up disagreeable reminiscences, "I remember the time when you would not have your child's name Francis, because it was your husband's."

"Oh, mamma, don't! That was in the mistaken years of long ago."

"And I hope you were civil to Sir Turtle," continued my lady: "you seemed to leave him very abruptly. He is a funny little round-headed man, and nothing but an alderman; but he means well. Think what _your_ fate might have been now--but for his--his clemency."

"If you would _please_ not recall these things, mother!" besought Adela, meekly, tears starting to her eyes. "Especially today, when we are all so happy."

Somehow the past, with all its terrible mistakes and the misery they had entailed, came rushing upon her mind so vividly that she could not control her emotion. Passing into the next room, and not perceiving her husband, her sobs broke forth. He came forward.

"My love, what is it?"

"Only----"

"Nay, tell me."

"Something mamma said made me think of that cruel time when--when I was so wrong and wicked. Francis, the shame and sin seemed all to come back again."

He held her before him; his tone one of tender reproof. "But the shame and sin never can come back, Adela. My wife, you know it."

"I know how good you are. And I know how merciful to me God has been," she replied, glancing at him through her wet lashes, with eyes full of love and devotion.

"Very merciful: very merciful to me and to you," whispered Francis Netherleigh. "Do you know, my darling, that through all that dark time, I never lost my trust in Him."

THE END.

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