Loved and lost
Date: 2024-11-03T00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: England -- Fiction; Man-woman relationships -- Fiction; Dime novels; Popular literature

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Title: Loved and lost
or, A deadly secret

Author: Bertha M. Clay

Release date: November 3, 2024 [eBook #74670]

Language: English

Original publication: United States: Street & Smith, 1924

Credits: Demian Katz and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (Images courtesy of the Digital Library@Villanova University.)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LOVED AND LOST ***

NEW BERTHA CLAY LIBRARY ~ No. 226 ~

LOVED AND LOST

BY

Bertha M. Clay

A FAVORITE OF MILLIONS

New Bertha Clay Library

LOVE STORIES WITH PLENTY OF ACTION

PRICE, FIFTEEN CENTS

The Author Needs No Introduction

Countless millions of women have enjoyed the works of this author. They are in great demand everywhere. The following list contains her best work, and is the only authorized edition.

These stories teem with action, and what is more desirable, they are clean from start to finish. They are love stories, but are of a type that is wholesome and totally different from the cheap, sordid fiction that is being published by unscrupulous publishers.

There is a surprising variety about Miss Clay’s work. Each book in this list is sure to give satisfaction.

ALL TITLES ALWAYS IN PRINT

1 | — | In Love’s Crucible | By Bertha M. Clay
2 | — | A Sinful Secret | By Bertha M. Clay
3 | — | Between Two Loves | By Bertha M. Clay
4 | — | A Golden Heart | By Bertha M. Clay
5 | — | Redeemed by Love | By Bertha M. Clay
6 | — | Between Two Hearts | By Bertha M. Clay
7 | — | Lover and Husband | By Bertha M. Clay
8 | — | The Broken Trust | By Bertha M. Clay
9 | — | For a Woman’s Honor | By Bertha M. Clay
10 | — | A Thorn in Her Heart | By Bertha M. Clay
11 | — | A Nameless Sin | By Bertha M. Clay
12 | — | Gladys Greye | By Bertha M. Clay
13 | — | Her Second Love | By Bertha M. Clay
14 | — | The Earl’s Atonement | By Bertha M. Clay
15 | — | The Gipsy’s Daughter | By Bertha M. Clay
16 | — | Another Woman’s Husband | By Bertha M. Clay
17 | — | Two Fair Women | By Bertha M. Clay
18 | — | Madolin’s Lover | By Bertha M. Clay
19 | — | A Bitter Reckoning | By Bertha M. Clay
20 | — | Fair but Faithless | By Bertha M. Clay
21 | — | One Woman’s Sin | By Bertha M. Clay
22 | — | A Mad Love | By Bertha M. Clay
23 | — | Wedded and Parted | By Bertha M. Clay
24 | — | A Woman’s Love Story | By Bertha M. Clay
25 | — | ’Twixt Love and Hate | By Bertha M. Clay
26 | — | Guelda | By Bertha M. Clay
27 | — | The Duke’s Secret | By Bertha M. Clay
28 | — | The Mystery of Colde Fell | By Bertha M. Clay
29 | — | One False Step | By Bertha M. Clay
30 | — | A Hidden Terror | By Bertha M. Clay
31 | — | Repented at Leisure | By Bertha M. Clay
32 | — | Marjorie Deane | By Bertha M. Clay
33 | — | In Shallow Waters | By Bertha M. Clay
34 | — | Diana’s Discipline | By Bertha M. Clay
35 | — | A Heart’s Bitterness | By Bertha M. Clay
36 | — | Her Mother’s Sin | By Bertha M. Clay
37 | — | Thrown on the World | By Bertha M. Clay
38 | — | Lady Damer’s Secret | By Bertha M. Clay
39 | — | A Fiery Ordeal | By Bertha M. Clay
40 | — | A Woman’s Vengeance | By Bertha M. Clay
41 | — | Thorns and Orange Blossoms | By Bertha M. Clay
42 | — | Two Kisses and the Fatal Lilies | By Bertha M. Clay
43 | — | A Coquette’s Conquest | By Bertha M. Clay
44 | — | A Wife’s Judgment | By Bertha M. Clay
45 | — | His Perfect Trust | By Bertha M. Clay
46 | — | Her Martyrdom | By Bertha M. Clay
47 | — | Golden Gates | By Bertha M. Clay
48 | — | Evelyn’s Folly | By Bertha M. Clay
49 | — | Lord Lisle’s Daughter | By Bertha M. Clay
50 | — | A Woman’s Trust | By Bertha M. Clay
51 | — | A Wife’s Peril | By Bertha M. Clay
52 | — | Love in a Mask | By Bertha M. Clay
53 | — | For a Dream’s Sake | By Bertha M. Clay
54 | — | A Dream of Love | By Bertha M. Clay
55 | — | The Hand Without a Wedding Ring | By Bertha M. Clay
56 | — | The Paths of Love | By Bertha M. Clay
57 | — | Irene’s Bow | By Bertha M. Clay
58 | — | The Rival Heiresses | By Bertha M. Clay
59 | — | The Squire’s Darling | By Bertha M. Clay
60 | — | Her First Love | By Bertha M. Clay
61 | — | Another Man’s Wife | By Bertha M. Clay
62 | — | A Bitter Atonement | By Bertha M. Clay
63 | — | Wedded Hands | By Bertha M. Clay
64 | — | The Earl’s Error and Letty Leigh | By Bertha M. Clay
65 | — | Violet Lisle | By Bertha M. Clay
66 | — | A Heart’s Idol | By Bertha M. Clay
67 | — | The Actor’s Ward | By Bertha M. Clay
68 | — | The Belle of Lynn | By Bertha M. Clay
69 | — | A Bitter Bondage | By Bertha M. Clay
70 | — | Dora Thorne | By Bertha M. Clay
71 | — | Claribel’s Love Story | By Bertha M. Clay
72 | — | A Woman’s War | By Bertha M. Clay
73 | — | A Fatal Dower | By Bertha M. Clay
74 | — | A Dark Marriage Morn | By Bertha M. Clay
75 | — | Hilda’s Love | By Bertha M. Clay
76 | — | One Against Many | By Bertha M. Clay
77 | — | For Another’s Sin | By Bertha M. Clay
78 | — | At War With Herself | By Bertha M. Clay
79 | — | A Haunted Life | By Bertha M. Clay
80 | — | Lady Castlemaine’s Divorce | By Bertha M. Clay
81 | — | Wife in Name Only | By Bertha M. Clay
82 | — | The Sin of a Lifetime | By Bertha M. Clay
83 | — | The World Between Them | By Bertha M. Clay
84 | — | Prince Charlie’s Daughter | By Bertha M. Clay
85 | — | A Struggle for a Ring | By Bertha M. Clay
86 | — | The Shadow of a Sin | By Bertha M. Clay
87 | — | A Rose in Thorns | By Bertha M. Clay
88 | — | The Romance of the Black Veil | By Bertha M. Clay
89 | — | Lord Lynne’s Choice | By Bertha M. Clay
90 | — | The Tragedy of Lime Hall | By Bertha M. Clay
91 | — | James Gordon’s Wife | By Bertha M. Clay
92 | — | Set in Diamonds | By Bertha M. Clay
93 | — | For Life and Love | By Bertha M. Clay
94 | — | How Will It End? | By Bertha M. Clay
95 | — | Love’s Warfare | By Bertha M. Clay
96 | — | The Burden of a Secret | By Bertha M. Clay
97 | — | Griselda | By Bertha M. Clay
98 | — | A Woman’s Witchery | By Bertha M. Clay
99 | — | An Ideal Love | By Bertha M. Clay
100 | — | Lady Marchmont’s Widowhood | By Bertha M. Clay
101 | — | The Romance of a Young Girl | By Bertha M. Clay
102 | — | The Price of a Bride | By Bertha M. Clay
103 | — | If Love Be Love | By Bertha M. Clay
104 | — | Queen of the County | By Bertha M. Clay
105 | — | Lady Ethel’s Whim | By Bertha M. Clay
106 | — | Weaker Than a Woman | By Bertha M. Clay
107 | — | A Woman’s Temptation | By Bertha M. Clay
108 | — | On Her Wedding Morn | By Bertha M. Clay
109 | — | A Struggle for the Right | By Bertha M. Clay
110 | — | Margery Daw | By Bertha M. Clay
111 | — | The Sins of the Father | By Bertha M. Clay
112 | — | A Dead Heart | By Bertha M. Clay
113 | — | Under a Shadow | By Bertha M. Clay
114 | — | Dream Faces | By Bertha M. Clay
115 | — | Lord Elesmere’s Wife | By Bertha M. Clay
116 | — | Blossom and Fruit | By Bertha M. Clay
117 | — | Lady Muriel’s Secret | By Bertha M. Clay
118 | — | A Loving Maid | By Bertha M. Clay
119 | — | Hilary’s Folly | By Bertha M. Clay
120 | — | Beauty’s Marriage | By Bertha M. Clay
121 | — | Lady Gwendoline’s Dream | By Bertha M. Clay
122 | — | A Story of an Error | By Bertha M. Clay
123 | — | The Hidden Sin | By Bertha M. Clay
124 | — | Society’s Verdict | By Bertha M. Clay
125 | — | The Bride From the Sea and Other Stories | By Bertha M. Clay
126 | — | A Heart of Gold | By Bertha M. Clay
127 | — | Addie’s Husband and Other Stories | By Bertha M. Clay
128 | — | Lady Latimer’s Escape | By Bertha M. Clay
129 | — | A Woman’s Error | By Bertha M. Clay
130 | — | A Loveless Engagement | By Bertha M. Clay
131 | — | A Queen Triumphant | By Bertha M. Clay
132 | — | The Girl of His Heart | By Bertha M. Clay
133 | — | The Chains of Jealousy | By Bertha M. Clay
134 | — | A Heart’s Worship | By Bertha M. Clay
135 | — | The Price of Love | By Bertha M. Clay
136 | — | A Misguided Love | By Bertha M. Clay
137 | — | A Wife’s Devotion | By Bertha M. Clay
138 | — | When Love and Hate Conflict | By Bertha M. Clay
139 | — | A Captive Heart | By Bertha M. Clay
140 | — | A Pilgrim of Love | By Bertha M. Clay
141 | — | A Purchased Love | By Bertha M. Clay
142 | — | Lost for Love | By Bertha M. Clay
143 | — | The Queen of His Soul | By Bertha M. Clay
144 | — | Gladys’ Wedding Day | By Bertha M. Clay
145 | — | An Untold Passion | By Bertha M. Clay
146 | — | His Great Temptation | By Bertha M. Clay
147 | — | A Fateful Passion | By Bertha M. Clay
148 | — | The Sunshine of His Life | By Bertha M. Clay
149 | — | On With the New Love | By Bertha M. Clay
150 | — | An Evil Heart | By Bertha M. Clay
151 | — | Love’s Redemption | By Bertha M. Clay
152 | — | The Love of Lady Aurelia | By Bertha M. Clay
153 | — | The Lost Lady of Haddon | By Bertha M. Clay
154 | — | Every Inch a Queen | By Bertha M. Clay
155 | — | A Maid’s Misery | By Bertha M. Clay
156 | — | A Stolen Heart | By Bertha M. Clay
157 | — | His Wedded Wife | By Bertha M. Clay
158 | — | Lady Ona’s Sin | By Bertha M. Clay
159 | — | A Tragedy of Love and Hate | By Bertha M. Clay
160 | — | The White Witch | By Bertha M. Clay
161 | — | Between Love and Ambition | By Bertha M. Clay
162 | — | True Love’s Reward | By Bertha M. Clay
163 | — | The Gambler’s Wife | By Bertha M. Clay
164 | — | An Ocean of Love | By Bertha M. Clay
165 | — | A Poisoned Heart | By Bertha M. Clay
166 | — | For Love of Her | By Bertha M. Clay
167 | — | Paying the Penalty | By Bertha M. Clay
168 | — | Her Honored Name | By Bertha M. Clay
169 | — | A Deceptive Lover | By Bertha M. Clay
170 | — | The Old Love or New? | By Bertha M. Clay
171 | — | A Coquette’s Victim | By Bertha M. Clay
172 | — | The Wooing of a Maid | By Bertha M. Clay
173 | — | A Bitter Courtship | By Bertha M. Clay
174 | — | Love’s Debt | By Bertha M. Clay
175 | — | Her Beautiful Foe | By Bertha M. Clay
176 | — | A Happy Conquest | By Bertha M. Clay
177 | — | A Soul Ensnared | By Bertha M. Clay
178 | — | Beyond All Dreams | By Bertha M. Clay
179 | — | At Her Heart’s Command | By Bertha M. Clay
180 | — | A Modest Passion | By Bertha M. Clay
181 | — | The Flower of Love | By Bertha M. Clay
182 | — | Love’s Twilight | By Bertha M. Clay
183 | — | Enchained by Passion | By Bertha M. Clay
184 | — | When Woman Wills | By Bertha M. Clay
185 | — | Where Love Leads | By Bertha M. Clay
186 | — | A Blighted Blossom | By Bertha M. Clay
187 | — | Two Men and a Maid | By Bertha M. Clay
188 | — | When Love Is Kind | By Bertha M. Clay
189 | — | Withered Flowers | By Bertha M. Clay
190 | — | The Unbroken Vow | By Bertha M. Clay
191 | — | The Love He Spurned | By Bertha M. Clay
192 | — | Her Heart’s Hero | By Bertha M. Clay
193 | — | For Old Love’s Sake | By Bertha M. Clay
194 | — | Fair as a Lily | By Bertha M. Clay
195 | — | Tender and True | By Bertha M. Clay
196 | — | What It Cost Her | By Bertha M. Clay
197 | — | Love Forevermore | By Bertha M. Clay
198 | — | Can This Be Love? | By Bertha M. Clay
199 | — | In Spite of Fate | By Bertha M. Clay
200 | — | Love’s Coronet | By Bertha M. Clay
201 | — | Dearer Than Life | By Bertha M. Clay
202 | — | Baffled By Fate | By Bertha M. Clay
203 | — | The Love That Won | By Bertha M. Clay
204 | — | In Defiance of Fate | By Bertha M. Clay
205 | — | A Vixen’s Love | By Bertha M. Clay
206 | — | Her Bitter Sorrow | By Bertha M. Clay
207 | — | By Love’s Order | By Bertha M. Clay
208 | — | The Secret of Estcourt | By Bertha M. Clay
209 | — | Her Heart’s Surrender | By Bertha M. Clay
210 | — | Lady Viola’s Secret | By Bertha M. Clay
211 | — | Strong In Her Love | By Bertha M. Clay

In order that there may be no confusion, we desire to say that the books listed below will be issued during the respective months in New York City and vicinity. They may not reach the readers at a distance promptly, on account of delays in transportation.

To Be Published in July, 1923.

212 | — | Tempted To Forget | By Bertha M. Clay
213 | — | With Love’s Strong Bonds | By Bertha M. Clay

To Be Published in August, 1923.

214 | — | Love, the Avenger | By Bertha M. Clay
215 | — | Under Cupid’s Seal | By Bertha M. Clay

To Be Published in September, 1923.

216 | — | The Love That Blinds | By Bertha M. Clay
217 | — | Love’s Crown Jewel | By Bertha M. Clay
218 | — | Wedded At Dawn | By Bertha M. Clay

To Be Published in October, 1923.

219 | — | For Her Heart’s Sake | By Bertha M. Clay
220 | — | Fettered For Life | By Bertha M. Clay

To Be Published in November, 1923.

221 | — | Beyond the Shadow | By Bertha M. Clay
222 | — | A Heart Forlorn | By Bertha M. Clay

To Be Published in December, 1923.

223 | — | The Bride of the Manor | By Bertha M. Clay
224 | — | For Lack of Gold | By Bertha M. Clay

LOVE STORIES

All the world loves a lover. That is why Bertha M. Clay ranks so high in the opinion of millions of American readers who prefer a good love story to anything else they can get in the way of reading matter.

These stories are true to life—that’s why they make such a strong appeal. Read one of them and judge.

LOVED AND LOST

OR,

A Deadly Secret

BY

BERTHA M. CLAY

Whose complete works will be published in this, the New
Bertha Clay Library.

STREET & SMITH CORPORATION
PUBLISHERS
79-89 Seventh Avenue, New York

(Printed in the United States of America)

LOVED AND LOST.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER I. UNDER THE GREENWOOD-TREE.
CHAPTER II. ADIEU.
CHAPTER III. A RUSE DE GUERRE.
CHAPTER IV. TUROY GRANGE.
CHAPTER V. WOMAN’S WAYS.
CHAPTER VI. THE LAST WALTZ.
CHAPTER VII. A NOBLE SACRIFICE.
CHAPTER VIII. PAULINE’S TRIUMPH.
CHAPTER IX. ALL FOR LOVE.
CHAPTER X. A FACE AT THE WINDOW.
CHAPTER XI. “WHAT’S IN A NAME?”
CHAPTER XII. A WILL-O’-THE-WISP.
CHAPTER XIII. DOCTOR MAY’S PATIENT.
CHAPTER XIV. MY LOVE—MY LIFE.
CHAPTER XV. A JOYFUL AWAKENING.
CHAPTER XVI. GWEN AND PAULINE.
CHAPTER XVII. WHAT HOPE CAN DO.
CHAPTER XVIII. A HAPPY BRIDE.
CHAPTER XIX. THE FIRST CLOUD.
CHAPTER XX. LOVED AND LOST.
CHAPTER XXI. FEAR.
CHAPTER XXII. CONVICTION.
CHAPTER XXIII. A PAINFUL SURPRISE.
CHAPTER XXIV. A COTTAGE BY THE SEA.
CHAPTER XXV. SIR LAWRENCE ACTS.
CHAPTER XXVI. A LONG EXPLANATION.

CHAPTER I.

UNDER THE GREENWOOD-TREE.

“How on earth did you get up there?” And the speaker put his glass in his eye, and coolly surveyed the dainty figure perched on one of the branches of the huge elm, under which he was standing. “That is the last place I expected to find you.”

“I suppose so,” she answered composedly; for Lady Gwendolyn was never flustered or ill at ease under the most trying circumstances. “The fact is, I have had an unpleasant adventure.”

“Indeed; I am very sorry. But hadn’t you better let me help you down before we talk it over; unless you like your quarters so well that you are inclined to stay there, and, in that case, I will join you.”

“Nonsense, Colonel Dacre!” but she laughed, too. “What would Mrs. Grundy say to such an extraordinary tête-à-tête?”

“She would say that it had the merit of novelty; and, considering how tired one is of everything that has happened, and how bored at the thought of prospective repetitions, I consider that any one who strikes out a new line for himself, and refuses to lag along in the old groove, deserves to be canonized.”

“Well, it is very nice when people will be a little original, certainly; but I am not sure that a woman dare get out of the old groove. Moreover, you men like pretty nonentities.”

“The deuce we do!” exclaimed Colonel Dacre. “Who told you that?”

“Nobody. One does not need telling things when one has eyes and ears. I have seen you dance as often as four times in one evening with Mrs. O’Hara.”

“Well?”

“Well,” echoed Lady Gwendolyn, with a superb sort of insolence, “is she clever?”

“No.”

“Refined?”

“No,” answered Colonel Dacre again.

“Or particularly good?”

“I am afraid not.”

“Then what is it that makes her the most popular woman in London?”

“Upon my word, I can’t tell you. I like her because I knew poor O’Hara.”

“And is it so pleasant to talk to her of your dead friend?” insinuated Lady Gwendolyn slyly.

“I never heard her mention her husband’s name in my life.”

“No? Really, you quite astonish me! Then you can’t like her for his sake—you must like her for her own. And I will tell you why, shall I?”

“I am all attention.”

“Well, she flatters you so skilfully that you don’t even know she is doing it, at the same time that you feel infinitely satisfied with yourself. I don’t mean you, individually, Colonel Dacre; but her acquaintances generally.”

“At any rate, no one can accuse you of a like fault, Lady Gwendolyn,” he said, with a faint smile, that showed pain as well as amusement.

“No; I am perfectly downright—too much so, Lady Teignmouth says; but then there is one thing I would scorn to do.”

“What is that?” And there was a certain eagerness in his gray eyes.

“I would scorn to trouble the peace of a happy ménage for the sake of gratifying my poor vanity.”

“And who does this thing?”

“You have a very poor memory, Colonel Dacre. Don’t you remember how well poor foolish Percy Gray got on with his wife, until——”

“Go on,” he urged.

“Well, until Mrs. O’Hara paid them a long visit in town, and then Percy began gradually to discover that Lady Maria was unsympathetic and dull, and could not satisfy a man of intellectual tastes. Perhaps Mrs. O’Hara meant no worse than to make herself agreeable to a convenient acquaintance; but the result was to separate the two.”

“I don’t think you are just, Lady Gwendolyn. What reason have you for laying their domestic differences at Mrs. O’Hara’s door?”

“Lady Maria made no mystery of it.”

“She was jealous of Mrs. O’Hara.”

“Possibly. I fancy I should have been in her place,” and Lady Gwendolyn’s eyes flashed fire. “If I had a husband, I should not exactly care for him to be always dancing attendance on a handsome widow, and making her presents of valuable jewels, especially when he bought these last with my money.”

“Did Lady Maria tell you that, too?”

“Indeed she did, and ‘albeit though not given to the melting mood,’ I cried with her, poor thing! ‘For,’ as she pathetically said, ‘we were so happy together, Percy and I, until Mrs. O’Hara came to stay with us in town, and then she gave him such an exalted idea of himself that I could not please or satisfy him afterward.’”

There was a minute’s silence. Lady Gwendolyn was almost ashamed at the warmth she had shown, lest her motives should be misconstrued; and Colonel Dacre was meditating deeply. At last he looked up and said:

“Why do you tell me all this, Lady Gwendolyn? You are not a spiteful woman naturally, and I know you to be incapable of jealousy. For these reasons I am specially anxious to understand your meaning.”

“Can’t you guess?”

“No; unless you fancy I am in danger from Mrs. O’Hara’s attractions, and need warning.”

“I have been afraid so,” she said; and the wild-rose bloom of her soft cheeks deepened to a rich crimson. “And we have been friends so long, neighbors always, I could not bear to see you throw yourself away on a woman who was so infinitely unworthy of an honest man’s love.”

If Lady Gwendolyn had been near Colonel Dacre she would not have dared to speak so frankly. But her position, if ridiculous, had its advantages, for she was out of the range of his keen glances, and the tremulous leaves had the benefit of her frequent blushes. For over a month now she had been longing to tell him this, but the courage had only come to-day. She was quite obliged to Farmer Bates’ bull for having frightened her up into the tree, and she did not mean to descend just yet.

Colonel Dacre took a long time to digest her warning, but he spoke at last coolly enough.

“Thank you, Lady Gwendolyn; but though I don’t quite agree with you about Mrs. O’Hara, I would sooner shoot myself than marry her. My friend was a noble fellow, and kept his counsel bravely to the end; but there was one thing that would always prevent me from falling in love with his widow.”

“What is that?”

“Because I should not like to stand in a dead man’s shoes, especially his. So, you see, I am safe, although Mrs. O’Hara has the double advantages of being a nonentity and a flatterer. Now will you let me help you down from your perch?”

“Wait just one minute. I want to ask you a very impertinent question first, if I may.”

“I grant you absolution beforehand,” he said, smiling, “on condition that you do not keep me in suspense.”

“I want to know,” she began hesitatingly, “whether if—supposing Mrs. O’Hara had not been your friend’s widow——”

“I should have cared for her?” put in the colonel, to help out her halting speech. “Is that what you mean?”

“Yes; I am so absurdly curious, and I have always wondered if—if——”

Here she came to a full stop in dire confusion, for she had been going to add, “if that is the sort of woman you would care for;” and suddenly perceived that this would not do at all.

“I’ll answer your question when you are on terra firma,” replied Colonel Dacre, dodging to catch a glimpse of the piquant face among the leaves; “this is what I call a conversation under difficulties. By the by, you forgot to tell me why you got up there at all.”

“Bates’ bull put its head over the railing, and looked at my red cloak so viciously I dared not pass him. I had often climbed this tree with Reggie when I was a little girl, and had managed to give Fraulein von Linder the slip; and so I thought I would try it again to-day; but a gown with a train is embarrassing.”

“I expect it is,” he answered, with a droll look in his handsome eyes. “I should be sorry to go about the world crippled by my clothes as you women do.”

“Oh, we don’t mind it, as a rule. One would rather suffer anything, you know, than be quite out of the fashion.”

“Would one, indeed?” he returned, in a tone of grave commiseration. “It seems to me that fashion is the greatest despot the world ever knew; but I am thankful to say it is only women who yield so servilely to its exactions.”

“Of course. One never hears, for instance, of men putting their necks into a vise, and having to turn their heads painfully for fear of accidents to the machinery. Still, if we did hear of such things, we should know it was only done for comfort, and respect them vastly for consulting their own ease before appearances.”

“I can’t argue with a lady so high above me,” retorted Colonel Dacre; and then he added, more seriously: “Indeed, Lady Gwendolyn, you ought to come down. I can see the Handley drag in the distance, and you know Sir Charles would tease your life out of you if he caught you in such a predicament as this.”

“I suppose he would, and therefore I must return to conventional life again. But you have no idea how pleasant it is up here; the air is so pure, and the leaves smell so sweet. I’ll get Teignmouth to arrange me a little place in one of his big trees, à la Robinson, so that I may retire there for contemplation and self-examination occasionally.”

“Or, rather, say to read your billets doux, and keep a close calculation as to the number of hearts you have broken,” said Colonel Dacre, with a sternness in his voice that showed this trifling, butterfly nature—as he believed it to be—angered as well as charmed him. “I fancy that would be nearer the truth.”

Without answering him, Lady Gwendolyn began to work her way slowly along the bough on which she had been seated. She found it a very different performance in cold blood from what it had been under the excitement of fear, and felt herself tremble nervously.

She was terribly incommoded by her dress into the bargain. If Colonel Dacre had not been there she would have gathered her train over her arm, and let her ankles take their chance; but under the circumstances this would not have done, and she had to proceed circumspectly, as became the daughter of a hundred earls.

Knowing nothing of her difficulties, and seeing the Handley drag draw nearer and nearer, Colonel Dacre kept urging her on eagerly. Sir Charles was a great gossip, and it was quite as well he should not have an opportunity of making mischief out of Lady Gwendolyn’s escapade.

“You really must be quick,” he urged; “the horses are turning Borton corner.”

“But don’t you think I should pass unobserved if you were to get away from the tree?” observed Lady Gwendolyn timidly.

“Impossible. Your red cloak must have been a feature in the landscape for some time past. You had better leave it where it is, to account for what they have seen, and if you are very quick, we shall be able to hide ourselves before they get on high ground again.”

“That’s all very well, but——”

“Shall I give you a little help?”

“Not for worlds! I would rather stay here all night.”

“Why?”

“Because I know you are laughing at me in your sleeve. You did not see the bull’s great glaring eyes.”

“If you had made him a present of your cloak he would have been so taken up with his toy that you would have been able to make your escape in a legitimate way.”

“That’s all very well, but I really can’t afford to throw my clothes away in that fashion. I have come down to Teignmouth on purpose to economize, because I exceeded my allowance last year, and my brother had to help me through. Now he is married he has to pay his wife’s debts, and, of course, I am left out in the cold; so I am obliged to be horribly careful, you see. Teignmouth says I ought to make three hundred pounds a year do; but then you men never understand what heaps of things a woman wants.”

“Exactly,” groaned her listener. “A man must have ten thousand pounds nowadays before he can afford the luxury of a wife, and then he’s ruined half the time. But pray look where you are going, Lady Gwendolyn. I am sure that branch on which you are stepping is rotten and unsafe.”

“It bore me before.”

“And, therefore, is less likely to do so again. I can hear it crack now—for mercy’s sake step back!” he shouted, in a frightened tone.

She seemed to enjoy his alarm, and laughed defiantly. She desired nothing better than to make him suffer a little; and she saw, by his anxious face, that he was suffering now—from a nervous dread of witnessing some catastrophe, no doubt. She put her other foot onto the rotten branch. He was watching her with his heart in his eyes; but he saw that his warning had been a mistake, and was silent now, hoping she would try to redeem her error if she were left to herself.

And so she did; but it was too late. The bough gave a loud creak, then broke off suddenly, and Lady Gwendolyn fell in a brilliant heap at Colonel Dacre’s feet.

The red cloak, her pretty summer hat, and her long black hair, were all in such a tangle together that he could not find her face at first, and even when he did he was afraid to look, lest the fatal beauty, which had been the curse of so many, was all spoiled and disfigured. An unholy thought sped through him, that, if it were so, there would be none to dispute with him the treasure he coveted. But he chased this away with contumely.

With a quick but reluctant hand he swept away the shining masses of her hair, and looked at her anxiously. She was as white as a lily; but if there was no more harm done than what he saw, she would break many more hearts yet—his own maybe among the rest.

He bent his lips almost to her ear; inhaling, with passionate delight, the faint perfume that pervaded her dress.

So far it had been a wonderful privilege to hold her hand for a few seconds in his; and now he might have touched her creamy cheek with his lips had he been so minded, and no one would have been the wiser, for the Handley wagonette had gone by, and there was not a living soul in sight.

It was a great temptation, for he had loved this girl secretly, madly, entirely, for two long years, and had suffered tortures of jealousy and hopelessness meanwhile.

If she would only come to herself! He did not think she could be much injured, as she had not fallen from any great height, but still she did not open her eyes, and he was so totally inexperienced in fainting-fits, that her perfect immovability frightened him.

He almost wished now that he had hailed the Handley people as they went by, although he was so jealously glad to have her all to himself. He wondered what he ought to do. He had heard of eau de Cologne being an excellent thing under the circumstance, but then he did not carry it about with him. He put his hand in his pocket mechanically as the idea occurred to him, and came upon his silver hunting-flask. His face brightened at once. He was sure he had also heard of brandy as a remedy, and what a merciful thing he had some by him. He supposed it was to be applied externally, like the eau de Cologne. Going down on his knees beside the insensible figure, he moistened his handkerchief with the spirit, and then bathed Lady Gwendolyn’s forehead and nostrils; and whether it was that brandy so applied really was a good thing, or that the fainting-fits was ending naturally, the girl’s white eyelids began to twinkle, and suddenly she looked up at him with a languidly mysterious smile.

He stooped over her tenderly.

“Are you better, Lady Gwendolyn?”

“Have I been ill, then?” she asked.

“Oh, dear, no!” he answered cheerfully, having always understood that you must keep your patient’s spirits up. “Just a little faintness, that was all. Nothing of the smallest consequence.”

“How do you know that?” she returned. “I believe I have broken my leg.”

“Oh! pray, don’t say that. You only fell from a very short distance, after all, and your feet were not doubled under you, or anything of that sort. You don’t feel any pain, do you?”

Lady Gwendolyn shook her dark, disheveled head in a despondent way.

“That is what I do feel, and I am sure I could not walk home.”

“I never dreamed of your doing such a thing. If you don’t mind waiting here——”

She interrupted him with a cry of dismay.

“So close to Bates’ bull?”

“I beg your pardon,” he said penitently, and then stood pulling at his mustache—a way he had when puzzled or annoyed.

At last he added hesitatingly:

“My house is close here, and if you would not mind my carrying you there, Mrs. Whittaker, the housekeeper, would be able to attend to you until the doctor came. I cannot think of any better plan at this moment; and, of course, I shall not enter the Hall until I have fetched Lady Teignmouth. It is ridiculous to trouble about conventionalities at such a time, Lady Gwendolyn, when the least neglect or delay might cause you to be a cripple for life. Are you not of my opinion?”

“Quite,” she replied, with a strange gleam as of suppressed triumph in her beautiful eyes. “Only that I am afraid you will find that the burden laid upon you is heavier than you can bear.”

“We shall see,” he said, lifting her in his stalwart arms as easily as if she had been a child. “Would you mind putting your arm round my shoulder, just to steady yourself?”

Lady Gwendolyn obeyed him with the simplicity that is always such perfect breeding; and when Colonel Dacre looked down at the creamy cheek resting on his shoulder, and felt the warm coil of her arm round his neck, he could hardly resist the mad temptation to press her against his heart, and tell her again and again how he loved her—so passionately that he would have deemed the world well lost for her sweet sake.

CHAPTER II.

ADIEU.

“Are you not a long time getting to the Hall?” inquired Lady Gwendolyn innocently. “It looked so very near when I was at the top of the tree. I am afraid I must be dreadfully heavy, after all. Do let me try to walk.”

“Not for the world; you might injure yourself for life,” he replied. “I could have hurried a little more, only that I was afraid of shaking you.”

Of course he could. Lady Gwendolyn knew that as well as he did, and smiled to herself. Surely he deserved that she should play with him a little, when for two long years he had kept her in suspense as to the state of his feelings, and had only betrayed them by accident now.

“You carry me beautifully,” she said, with her most gracious air. “You must be wonderfully strong.”

“I used to be; but I have seen my best days, you know.”

“I don’t know. What age are you?” she asked, in her usual downright way.

“Nearly thirty-four.”

“Say thirty-three; there is no need to anticipate. I shall be twenty next week; but I mean to call myself nineteen until twelve o’clock on Monday night. When I reach twenty-five I shall pause there for four or five years, and then go on as slowly as possible, counting every other year, until I am awfully old, and then I sha’n’t mind.”

“Would you really mind now if you were—thirty, say?”

“Yes—I should,” she replied, with great decision.

“Then how dreadfully you must feel for me, Lady Gwendolyn.”

“I don’t think it signifies about a man’s age, unless he is beginning to get infirm. But you have plenty of good years before you yet, Colonel Dacre.”

“I hope you are a true prophet, Lady Gwendolyn. I can assure you that, so far, I have only seen the dark side of life.”

“And yet to outsiders you always seem such a very fortunate person.”

“Do I? Why?”

“You have plenty of money, a fine old property, health to enjoy your advantages; and, therefore, as the world argues, you are an exceedingly fortunate person.”

“Of course, I forgot,” he said bitterly; “money is everything in this world; and yet how little it can buy—of what one values most, I mean.”

“Why, it buys diamonds!” exclaimed Lady Gwendolyn naïvely.

“And you value them more than anything?”

“Well, they are property,” said her ladyship, with a provoking laugh. “I get tired of an ornament so soon; it is nice to know I can dispose of it to advantage, and buy something that pleases me better with the money.”

“Lady Gwendolyn, I give you notice that I don’t believe a word you are saying.”

“No?”

“No, I do not believe you to be so bad as you make yourself out,” he pursued, with indignant emphasis, for he was trying to convince himself as well as to shame her. “But I cannot understand the pleasure of shocking people.”

“Because you are not sensational.”

“Heaven forbid!” he ejaculated fervently.

“Why ‘Heaven forbid?’ There is nothing so delightful. I should die of ennui down here, if it weren’t for an occasional tragedy or surprise.”

“It is to be hoped you won’t have one too many,” he answered gravely.

She lifted her mutinous face from his shoulder to look into his eyes, and then subsided back into her warm shelter, smiling an odd, keen, satisfied little smile, which seemed to say: “You belong to me so thoroughly now that, whatever I may say or do, you cannot break your bonds.”

And, alas! it was only too true. He knew this himself by his undiminished longing to crush her into his arms—to carry her away to some quiet corner of the earth, where she might belong to him undisputed, and satisfy his whole being with the sweetness of her presence. For this he would have resigned gladly all the advantages she had just been enumerating; for this he would have sacrificed everything but his honor, and hope of heaven.

“Well,” she said, after a long pause, “why don’t you talk?”

“I have nothing to say, Lady Gwendolyn, that would be sufficiently tragical, or surprising, either, to amuse you,” he answered, with indulgent irony.

“I am not so sure of that. Do you know what somebody told me once?”

“Somebody must have told you so many things at different times.”

“But I mean about you?”

“I am no Œdipus, Lady Gwendolyn,” he answered; and, though he constrained himself to speak coolly, his lips went white.

“That you have a secret in your life—a skeleton in your cupboard,” she said, in a quick breath, that showed that she was speaking with a purpose, and not out of mere audacity and carelessness. “Is it true?”

He seemed to swallow down a great lump in his throat before he could answer her; and then his voice was strangely hoarse, and unlike his natural tones.

“Do you ask this out of curiosity only, Lady Gwendolyn?”

It was her turn to steady her voice before she responded:

“No—at least, not exactly.”

“Then tell me your motive?”

And, unconsciously, in his eagerness he stooped over her, until his lips touched her hair.

“I—I want to know,” she stammered out.

“That is not a reason.”

“It is the best I can give you.”

“The best you can give me would be the true one.”

“A woman does not like to confess that she is curious,” she said evasively.

“Then it is curiosity?”

“I did not say so.”

“You implied it, Lady Gwendolyn.”

“Don’t you know that speech was given to us to enable us to conceal our thoughts, Colonel Dacre?”

“You are fencing the question. I wish you would be frank with me for once.”

“It is a great mistake to be frank. You only put weapons into your enemies’ hands for them to wound you with.”

“But you are not obliged to be frank with enemies, Lady Gwendolyn.”

“If once people get into the habit, it is very difficult to break it off. Besides, who is to discriminate between friend and foe?”

“I thought a woman’s wonderful instinct always helped her there.”

“Not always. For instance”—saucily—“I have never been able to discover yet whether you like me or not.”

“Then you must be extraordinarily obtuse,” he answered, in the same tone.

“I acknowledged as much just now.”

But at this moment they reached the Hall, in spite of Colonel Dacre’s lingering, and he carried her carefully over the threshold, and placed her on the sofa in a small room, which had once been his mother’s boudoir, and where the pretty things a refined woman likes to collect around her lay about in elegant profusion.

“Now I will go and speak to my housekeeper, and place you in her charge during my absence,” he said; and was moving toward the door, when she put out her hand and detained him.

“Colonel Dacre, will you do me a great favor?”

“A dozen if I had the chance,” he answered, with more vehemence than he was conscious of.

“I don’t want any one to know I am here until you return.”

“Oh, but, Lady Gwendolyn, it is impossible that I should leave you without assistance.”

“Not if I prefer it?” she asked, with her most persuasive accent.

“When people want things that are bad for them we generally serve them, in spite of themselves, by a denial.”

“Yes; but this is not really bad for me. My foot has entirely ceased to pain me, and what I want now is simply rest and quiet. I know Mrs. Whittaker, and she is a terrible gossip. I could not stand her in my best moments; now she would irritate me beyond endurance.”

Seeing him still hesitate, she added, in a decided tone:

“Very well, then, if she comes, or any fuss is made in the house, I will hop home, somehow, Colonel Dacre. There will be an astonishing story abroad to-morrow if Mrs. Whittaker is taken into our confidence——”

“But how is this to be avoided?” he interrupted.

“Very easily indeed. Lady Teignmouth will come to fetch me presently, and how should your servants know that we did not arrive together?”

“You forget that we shall have to account for Doctor Thurlow’s sudden visit.”

“I don’t see any need for that. You are not surely bound to keep your servants au courant as to all your movements.”

“That is about the last thing I should think of as a rule. I trouble myself very little about what they think; but I am naturally sensitive for you, Lady Gwendolyn.”

“If that is the case, you must see that my proposition is a good one. The servants are less likely to talk if they have nothing to talk about.”

“You don’t do justice to their inventive faculties, Lady Gwendolyn.”

“I don’t profess to understand them much,” she answered, with the hauteur of a true patrician. “I always hear that they are very unsatisfactory people; but I am sufficiently fortunate, I suppose, for I don’t often change my maids.”

“And I never change mine,” he said, laughing. “I always find the same faces here when I return from my travels. But are you quite determined to banish Mrs. Whittaker, Lady Gwendolyn?”

“Entirely. I infinitely prefer to be alone; and as I am free from pain, and perfectly composed, I really don’t see what I could do with her if she were here, except listen to your praises.”

“And that would be too trying.”

“I never said so; but, as you advocate frankness, I will admit that I would rather the pleasure were postponed.”

“Sine die, I suppose?”

“Colonel Dacre, you are too spiteful! I won’t listen to you any longer.”

And she turned her face to the wall, with a resolute air.

He went down on one knee, and said in a tragical tone:

“I cannot depart without your forgiveness. There is a deep pit on the Teignmouth Road, and, blinded by despair, I should be sure to fall into it! There is also a swift river beyond. You will not, surely, send me forth to certain destruction?”

She gave him her hand, and his lips fastened on it eagerly, passionately. She kept her face averted still, but she did not chide him, and a faint tremor went through her whole frame. Then slowly she turned her head, and, looking him straight in the eyes, said softly:

“You have not told me your secret yet.”

He sprang to his feet abruptly, as if he had been stung.

“Who told you I had a secret?” he asked, in a stifled voice.

“Some one.”

“Is it impossible that ‘some one’ should lie?”

“Tell me it is so, and I will believe you.”

Dead silence.

“Do you hear me, Colonel Dacre?”

“Yes, I hear you, Lady Gwendolyn.”

“Then answer something,” she added, in an impatient tone.

Again he was mute.

She snatched her hand away from him, and turned her face to the wall once more.

“I understand you, Colonel Dacre. You have a secret, and one you would be ashamed to tell me.”

“Is that a necessary inference?” he inquired, in a low, constrained voice.

“I think so.”

“Perhaps you are too prejudiced to be just.”

“I don’t know why I should be. You and I were always good friends, in the social sense of the term. For instance, you always asked me for two or three dances when we met at a ball, and sometimes you even took me down to supper. I have even known you to shelter me from the sun by holding my parasol at a garden-party; and once you so far sacrificed yourself as to play croquet at my desire. After that I never allowed myself to doubt your devotion, I assure you; and I am surprised you should think I could be prejudiced against you.”

“Can you never be serious?” he said painfully.

“I am serious now.”

“I should be sorry to think so.”

“Why? I have not said anything bad, have I?”

“No; but if your seriousness is so much like jest, how is one ever to know which you mean it to be?”

“You must wait for circumstances to enlighten you.”

“How long?”

“That depends upon—circumstances.”

“You are very enigmatical, Lady Gwendolyn, and, as I said before, I am no Œdipus.”

“Then you give me up?” she said, laughing.

“As a riddle, yes. There never was a man yet who could fathom a woman, from Adam downward.”

“It was never intended that you should, evidently, or Eve would not have been allowed to set such a precedent. Weakness is often obliged to seem like duplicity in self-defense.”

“Do you call yourself weak? Physical strength is not the greatest, after all, or Una would never have tamed the lion.”

“If you lapse into allegory, I am undone,” she said gaily. “I am no ‘scholar,’ as the poor people say. What little my governesses managed to teach me I have forgotten long ago.”

“And yet, I heard you translate a Latin epigram very creditably the other day.”

“Nonsense! Colonel Dacre. Your ears deceived you. I should have been so exhausted mentally by the effort that I should not have been able to frame an intelligible sentence for at least a year afterward, and you see I am quite rational to-day.”

He rose with an impatient, weary air. It seemed as if she were such an incorrigible trifler, and had so thoroughly accustomed herself to look on the ridiculous side of everything, that now she could not be serious even if she wished.

And yet she was so lovely; and what better excuse did a man ever need for such folly?

“‘If to her share a thousand errors fall,

Look in her face and you forget them all,’”

the colonel muttered to himself, rather grimly, as he furtively examined the delicate profile which was just sufficiently out of the straight Greek line to give it more piquancy without losing the grace of the model.

Though she was somewhat above the middle height, she might have worn Cinderella’s glass slipper with ease, and her hand was so small, and soft, and plump, it seemed to melt in your grasp.

Altogether, she was the only woman yet who had ever entirely satisfied him. Others had charmed him for a time, but he had never learned to love them because somehow they had always managed to disenchant him before he reached that point. But he had only to see Lady Gwendolyn to tumble headlong, foolishly in love; and though he had been struggling to get out of bondage ever since, each month seemed to strengthen his chains.

Now he had surrendered at discretion, and felt himself at the mercy of this black-browed witch of a woman, who seemed to think it a pleasant pastime to break the hearts of those who loved her.

Having almost reached the door, he came back to say wistfully:

“Do you forgive me for disobeying you, Lady Gwendolyn?”

“No,” she answered shortly and sternly; for she was given to these Protean changes of mood. “You have not told me your secret.”

“Why will you harp upon that miserable subject? I do not question you upon your past.”

“You have no right,” she said haughtily.

A sudden glow crept into his face; his eyes shone with triumph.

“You think that you have a right to know mine, then, Lady Gwendolyn?”

She saw then what inference she had favored, and grew crimson to the very roots of her hair under his searching, impassioned gaze. Amazed at her own embarrassment, she answered petulantly:

“I wish you would let me rest, Colonel Dacre. I might as well have had Mrs. Whittaker if you were going to gossip like this.”

“I beg your pardon,” he answered, with a formal bow; “I forget that I might be boring you. What message shall I give Lady Teignmouth from you?”

“None whatever, thank you. Say what you think fit. She is sure to be shocked, anyhow, for she is the most unmitigated prude I ever knew; but she will recover herself in time, I dare say. Will you kindly hand me a book before you go?”

He chose one that he thought would interest her, placed it on a little table beside her sofa, with very evident pleasure in the service, and then, remembering Lot’s wife, he left the room without once looking back.

Lord Teignmouth’s park adjoined his, and he had not far to go; but, on reaching the house, he heard, to his dismay, that his lordship and wife had driven out together to make some calls, and were not expected home until six o’clock.

Of course he could not confide his errand to the butler, and, therefore, he simply said that he would call again later, and took his way toward the village. But, as luck would have it, Doctor Thurlow was also absent, having been sent for a few minutes before he arrived; and, as his patient lived nearly eight miles off, there was not much chance of his being back for an hour and a half, at least.

Colonel Dacre began to think that everything was conspiring to drive him crazy. He might reasonably have counted upon taking back one of the three people he had gone to fetch, and so setting Lady Gwendolyn right with the world, supposing her adventure got wind; and not knowing what to do now, he decided to walk back to the Hall as quickly as possible, and hear what his guest wished done.

He began to see now that it was a mistake to have taken her there at all. If he had only carried her into Bates’ house, nothing could possibly have been said—only that people always think of these brilliant expedients when it is too late to carry them into effect, and as it had not suggested itself to Lady Gwendolyn she could hardly blame him for his forgetfulness.

He had left the door ajar, and stole into the house unperceived. Perhaps in his heart of hearts he was not sorry that he should have another tête-à-tête with Lady Gwendolyn, though he would not have confessed as much even to himself, so anxious was he to be honorable even in thought.

The door of the little boudoir where he had left her was shut fast, and he knocked softly thrice without receiving any answer. At last, fancying that the girl must have fallen asleep, he opened it with a certain hesitation and peered in, naturally glancing first toward the sofa, where he had seen her last, reclining helplessly back among the cushions.

She was not there.

Somewhat alarmed now, he walked boldly in, and searched even behind the curtains, thinking, perhaps, her ladyship was coquetting with his fears, and enjoying his discomfiture from her hiding-place. But she was not there, or anywhere, so far as he could perceive, and he paused in great perplexity. Had the Teignmouths chanced to call while he was away, and carried her off?

This seemed the most feasible solution of the mystery, considering the state she was in, and he was about to adopt it, when he suddenly caught sight of a little three-cornered note lying on the table which he had placed beside Lady Gwendolyn’s couch.

It was addressed to “Colonel Dacre,” and, tearing it open eagerly, he read the following words, whose expressiveness was only equaled by their laconicism:

“I have found out your secret at last. Adieu.”

CHAPTER III.

A RUSE DE GUERRE.

Colonel Dacre stood quite still for several minutes, holding Lady Gwendolyn’s letter in his hand, and so completely stunned by the misfortune that had come upon him, he could scarcely realize its magnitude as yet. Had Lady Gwendolyn’s accident been a mere pretense and blind? And, if so, had she any excuse for her deception?

These were the two questions he put to himself the moment he could reason. There was only one thing that could have justified such a course of action on Lady Gwendolyn’s part; and if she had had this motive, he was ready to forgive her. He would not judge her, then, until they had met and he had interrogated her, when, even if her tongue labored to deceive him still, he should know the truth by her eyes.

But he could not present himself at the Castle a second time that day, and he might have betrayed Lady Gwendolyn by so doing; as there was just the chance that she had been able to get home without Lord and Lady Teignmouth knowing anything about her little adventure.

He must wait, therefore, until the morrow for a solution of the double mystery, trying as the suspense was.

Before the household was astir he got up, plunged into a cold bath to freshen himself a little, and then went out into the lanes, which he paced up and down until breakfast-time.

The meal was a farce—he was much too excited to eat; but he thought it necessary to sit down to table, and help himself from one of the savory little dishes which the butler forced upon his notice. He did not care to set them gossiping in the servants’ hall; and Graham had already remarked, with the freedom of an old retainer, that “he feared his master must have had a bad night, since he had risen so much earlier than usual.”

To wait until the afternoon was beyond Colonel Dacre’s courage; and as he and Lord Teignmouth had been at Eton together as boys, he thought he might venture to make a morning call for once in a way. So he ordered his horse at a quarter to twelve, and got through the interval as best he could.

Lord Teignmouth was at home, and received him cordially in the library. He was a hearty, pleasant-mannered man, who managed to enjoy life vastly, although the countess was not reckoned, in the neighborhood, to be a very satisfactory wife. But, if frivolous and vain, her ladyship was sweet-tempered, and accorded as much liberty to her husband as she took herself; so that they kept on excellent terms—all the better, perhaps, that they were so seldom together.

It was purely an accident that they were both at the Castle now, as her ladyship had an engagement elsewhere; but a slight feverish attack had brought her down to Teignmouth for rest and fresh air, and she was as much charmed as surprised when she found her husband and sister-in-law ruralizing, also.

“It is so seldom one can manage to be quite en famille,” she said affably; “the world is such a tyrant, it is always claiming one. I am horribly tired of gaiety, but one must do as others do, you know.”

And when the earl laughed, as he always did at his wife’s logic, she opened her large blue eyes, and added innocently:

“Well, but mustn’t one, dear?”

Colonel Dacre asked after the countess’ health with great apparent solicitude, as he shook hands with his host, and was, of course, delighted to hear that she had entirely recovered from her recent indisposition. Then he added, with assumed nonchalance:

“I trust Lady Gwendolyn is equally well.”

“Oh! that’s where the land lies, is it?” thought the earl. But aloud he said, with a certain twinkle of the eye:

“I trust she is, too; but I haven’t seen her since last night.”

“No?” put in the colonel, waiting eagerly for further information.

“The fact is,” Lord Teignmouth went on, in a confidential tone, “girls are never of the same mind two days together. Yesterday morning Gwen was enchanted with Teignmouth, and declared she would give up all her engagements and stay here for the autumn; in the evening, at dinner, she suddenly announced that she was bored to death, and should leave by the first train in the morning.”

“And this morning she changed her mind for the third time, I presume?”

“Not a bit of it! I thought she would, of course, and quite expected to see her at breakfast; but when, on her not presenting herself, I made inquiries, I found that she had left Teignmouth by the first train.”

Colonel Dacre felt himself turn pale, but managed to say, with tolerable composure:

“I am sorry for that, as she was kind enough to lend me a book the other day, and I have not had the opportunity of returning it. But perhaps you will kindly give me her address, and then I can send it by post.”

“Her address. Let me see,” said the earl, with provoking deliberation. “I know it is somewhere in the North.”

“I am afraid that is rather vague.”

“I am afraid it is,” he answered, with his frank laugh. “But I have such a confoundedly bad memory. Pauline would remember, I dare say. She is generally my prompter. Supposing you go and ask her yourself?”

“Are you sure I should not be intruding on Lady Teignmouth?” inquired Colonel Dacre, whose eyes had suddenly brightened at the proposition.

“On the contrary, I am certain her ladyship will be delighted to see you.”

Lady Teignmouth was reclining on a lounge by the open window as Colonel Dacre entered, and her very attitude showed how thoroughly bored she was; but at the sound of his name she turned, with evident relief, and held out her hand.

“How very kind of you to take compassion on a poor recluse!” she said gaily. “I am literally dying of ennui! I do hope you have brought me some news.”

“On the contrary, I have come here for news,” he answered, seating himself in the chair her ladyship pointed out.

“Then you have been taken in, I am afraid. Nothing new ever happens at Teignmouth.”

“I don’t know about that,” he said, his voice trembling a little; “Lady Gwendolyn’s sudden departure is something new.”

“I am so accustomed to these strange caprices of hers, they never seem new to me,” replied Lady Teignmouth, hardening a little. “It is a great misfortune when a mere girl has such a horror of anything like control. I am going away to-morrow myself, and she might as well have waited and traveled with me as far as town, but she would not listen to my proposition. She preferred to be quite free, she said; and so she is gone off, goodness knows where, in spite of everything I could say.”

“Lord Teignmouth told me she had left you her address,” hazarded the colonel timidly.

The countess gave him a sudden, keen look right in the eyes, and then shook her head.

“You know poor dear Reginald always does make blunders, Colonel Dacre. Gwen said something about letting us know shortly where she was to be found, but I think it was only a parting civility to which it would not do to attach much importance.”

“But what motive could she have for concealing her whereabouts?”

“I never profess to understand Gwen’s motives for anything, Colonel Dacre; nor do I, as a rule, interfere in her plans. The best thing that could happen to her would be to get a husband who would keep her in order, for what little authority Teignmouth might have as her guardian he never exercises, so that she is getting more and more lawless every day.”

“Lady Gwendolyn may consider that she is justified in pleasing herself so long as Lord Teignmouth does not remonstrate; he is the only person who has a right to take this tone with her as yet.”

“Oh! I never interfere, if that is what you mean,” responded her ladyship, smiling that sweet, stereotyped smile of hers which imposed upon so many. “I have no right, as you say.”

Colonel Dacre had not said exactly this, but he let it pass, and observed, after a pause:

“Then you cannot give me any idea where Lady Gwendolyn is to be found?”

“Not the faintest. But she may write in a day or two, and then I will let you know, if you like.”

“Thank you very much,” he said; and then he added, with assumed carelessness: “She was quite well, I hope, when she went away?”

“Perfectly,” answered Lady Teignmouth, opening her eyes very wide, as if she were surprised at the question.

“She did not complain of her foot at all?”

“Why should she?”

“Oh! I thought she might possibly have sprained her ankle,” he said evasively. “She walked so much more here than she is accustomed to do.”

“She pleased herself; there was a carriage always at her disposal. You ought to know, Colonel Dacre, that my husband is absurdly weak, so far as Gwen is concerned, and would try to get her a slice of the moon if she wanted one.”

“It is a very amiable weakness,” said the colonel, smiling.

“But not always a convenient one for his wife.”

Colonel Dacre began to understand the countess better now. She was jealous of her beautiful sister-in-law. She never made the faintest effort to retain her husband’s affection; still she did not want him to care for anybody else, and was never so near losing her temper as when anything reminded her of the good understanding that existed between the brother and sister.

Then, again, although a pretty woman, the countess was quite eclipsed by Lady Gwendolyn, which was another reason why she should not regard her with much favor. However, she did not care for an outsider to know exactly the terms they were on, for she added, in an indulgent tone:

“I dare say it is very natural, after all. There are only two of them left now, and their mother left Gwen in Reginald’s charge, so that he looks upon her as a sacred legacy. Only, of course, she is but young, and it would be better if he looked after her a little more, would it not?”

“Perhaps it would,” he admitted. “But it is just possible Lady Gwendolyn would not submit to be dictated to.”

“In that case she ought to marry, and take the responsibility off our shoulders, Colonel Dacre,” replied the countess, with more decision than she usually infused into her company manner. “I am sure you would hardly believe how worried I was by her numerous flirtations last season.”

“I should have fancied there was safety in numbers,” remarked her listener dryly.

“For her, perhaps; but I am afraid it only made it more dangerous for them. If this were a dueling age, Gwen would have a good many on her conscience, I fancy.”

“But, you see, men do not always care to risk their lives for a woman whom they know is trifling with them,” said Colonel Dacre slowly.

“Well, you speak very philosophically of love, as if it were a light feeling that helped you through a few idle hours, but was not likely to take any deeper hold.”

“You quite misunderstand me, I assure you. I think love a terrible thing, and pity those who fall into it, with all my heart.”

“While taking warning by their example,” insinuated Lady Teignmouth, smiling.

A quick flush passed over the colonel’s face. The significance of her manner made him tremble for his secret, which he feared was in very unsafe keeping. He hastened to deny the “soft impeachment” in self-defense.

“Exactly. As a mere looker-on I can judge the question dispassionately, which would not be the case, supposing my feelings were implicated.”

This time her ladyship laughed outright. She evidently thought his logic rather defective. Then, becoming suddenly grave, she said:

“If love is a terrible thing under ordinary circumstances, what must it be under extraordinary circumstances?”

“What do you mean by extraordinary circumstances?”

“Well, if you cared for a coquette—we will say?”

“I hope I never should, Lady Teignmouth.”

“I hope not, too, for your own sake. And, unfortunately, I have seen so many poor moths consumed in a certain flame that I tremble now for every one that approaches. The only chance, so far as my experience goes, is to keep out of the way.”

“On the principle that ‘prevention is better than cure,’” he answered lightly. “I agree with your ladyship there, up to a certain point; still, if one were always on the lookout for painful possibilities, life would not be worth living, would it?”

The countess yawned demonstratively.

“Is it now, do you think?”

“Yes,” he answered, with decision. “I find it so.”

“You really surprise me;” and she leaned back on her couch with an air of extreme languor. “Do you know, Colonel Dacre, I often wonder what some people are made of—nothing seems to trouble them.”

“Possibly those are just the people who feel things the most. Real suffering is generally quiet.”

She turned on him abruptly.

“Is that why you are so quiet now?”

“I cannot think why your ladyship will persist in attributing to me a secret sorrow or passion,” he retorted. “Do I look very Byronic?”

“No,” she answered readily; “but you see I have got quite into the way of looking upon every man I have seen with Gwen as one of her victims, and you have been very often with her of late.”

“So have half a dozen others. I suppose they were my companions in misfortune?”

“Don’t jest upon such a serious subject,” she said, with her malicious smile.

“Anyhow,” he observed, rising, “however hard hit I may be, I shall know it is not of any use appealing to your ladyship for sympathy—Lady Gwendolyn’s ‘victims’ seem to make excellent sport for you?”

“When they don’t bore me. You know it is too much to expect one woman to sit and listen to another’s praises for two or three hours together. That is occasionally my fate; and I must frankly confess that I dislike it extremely. If I were to show the least sign of weariness, I should be looked upon as a monster, for every one ought to enjoy the capitulation of Gwen’s marvelous perfections. Do you know I sometimes quite wish I were her mother; I suppose I should like all this vastly then, especially if they had the tact to refer now and then to my past triumphs, and insinuate that my daughter was just what I must have been at her age. But—you are surely going to stay to luncheon, Colonel Dacre? My husband won’t forgive me if I don’t keep you, and I am sure you would not like to be the cause of our first conjugal difference, would you?”

“Nothing would distress me more; but Lord Teignmouth is too just to lay my fault at your door.”

“But, really, Colonel Dacre, you must stay. A man without home-ties has no excuse for refusing an invitation of any sort. I look upon bachelors as public property myself. Come,” she added persuasively, “I will make a bargain with you. Stop and lunch with us, and I will tell where I think it probable you may find Lady Gwendolyn—supposing you really wish to see her?”

“Would your ladyship mind telling me why you so particularly want me to stay?” said the colonel; led by the countess’ manner to suspect some trick.

“Certainly; we are quite alone to-day, and I have private reasons of my own for avoiding a tête-à-tête with my husband. Are you satisfied with my explanation?”

Colonel Dacre bowed silently. He was not satisfied, by any means, but it was rather difficult to say so.

“Then you will stay?” added Lady Teignmouth, after a minute’s silence.

“With pleasure.”

A smile, so full of malicious triumph, shone in the countess’ eyes, that if Colonel Dacre had only seen it before, it would have served as a warning to him. But having accepted, he could not retract now, although he was more than ever persuaded that the countess was playing him a trick.

This idea was confirmed when, just as he was pocketing the card on which his companion had written the address he wanted, the Handley drag drove up to the door, and emptied its living freight into the hall, which swept on up the wide staircase, laughing and talking. But Lady Teignmouth was equal to the occasion. She looked straight at her guest, without so much as a blush on her cool, pink cheek.

“It is the Handley party come to luncheon—how very kind of them. No fear of a matrimonial tête-à-tête now.”

“Then I am not wanted any longer, Lady Teignmouth?”

“On the contrary, you are wanted more than ever. You know how difficult Clara Handley is to amuse.”

“I am afraid I can’t be facetious to order, Lady Teignmouth.”

“You can pay compliments, and that is all Clara cares about,” responded the countess, who had by no means a high opinion of her own sex. Then she went forward to greet the young lady herself with great affection, kissing her on both cheeks, and congratulating her upon the effect of her new hat, leaving the colonel quite bewildered and pained in his heart, for he had always had a chivalrous respect for women, and it grieved him to know that even one could be so false.

He had to take Clara Handley into luncheon, and exerted himself to be agreeable, but his thoughts were elsewhere, and he was glad when the meal was over. When the whole party adjourned to the grounds to play lawn-tennis, he shook hands with Lord Teignmouth, and slipped quietly away.

He was just congratulating himself upon having paid Lady Teignmouth a little trick as anticipative vengeance for the one he suspected her of having planned for him, when he suddenly found himself face to face with the countess herself.

“I just ran away for a minute from the others to wish you good-by, and bon voyage,” she said, her whole face in a glitter of malicious delight. “I am sure you will enjoy yourself up there, the country is so picturesque. Give my love to Gwen, and tell her that directly she is tired of solitude, I shall be happy to chaperon her anywhere.”

Shaking himself to get rid of the disagreeable impression her ladyship had left behind, Colonel Dacre rode rapidly toward home, and scarcely felt safe from Lady Teignmouth’s shafts until he found himself once more in the library of Borton Hall.

CHAPTER IV.

TUROY GRANGE.

The address Lady Teignmouth had given Colonel Dacre was Turoy Grange, near Westhampton, Yorkshire; and after looking out for Westhampton on the map, and settling the route he ought to take, he rang the bell, and told the butler to pack his traveling-bag and order the carriage for the four-o’clock train.

“I sha’n’t be gone more than three or four days,” added the colonel, seeing the other looked surprised. “You may confidently expect me by Saturday at the latest.”

It was to be hoped Graham did not take his master quite at his word, for a great many Saturdays would come and go before Colonel Dacre would cross his own threshold again.

Indeed, he little suspected what this journey was to bring forth, or he would have counter-ordered his dog-cart assuredly, tossed Lady Teignmouth’s card into the waste-basket, and made up his mind to await calmly the issue of events, and abide by the result.

However, four o’clock saw the “gallant colonel”—as the local newspaper always designated him—stepping into a first-class carriage at Borton Station, bound for “fair London town,” en route for Turoy Grange, near Westhampton, Yorkshire.

He remembered as he went along that he had often heard Lady Gwendolyn speak, half jestingly, of her “mansion” at Turoy, and declare it to be such a “ghostly place that only a person with a very clear conscience could venture to stay there even for a night.”

She and Lord Teignmouth had often spent their holidays there when children; but then their mother was alive, and the place had been made bright for their occupation.

The last four years it had been seldom inhabited, although it was one of Lady Gwendolyn’s caprices to have it kept in perfect order and repair, that it might be available, supposing she cared to run down there at any time.

An old nurse of hers, with her husband, lived in the house—that Colonel Dacre also remembered to have heard; and had been pleased at Lady Gwendolyn’s thoughtful provision for one who had been good to her when she was a child. But from the description given him of Turoy it was the last place for a spoiled beauty to take refuge in, unless she had some reason at the moment to feel disgusted with the world and her friends, and needed a spell of solitude to get her into a better mood.

“If I could believe that she had run away to Turoy on my account I should be the happiest man alive,” Colonel Dacre said to himself, with a wild thrill, for it seemed to him that this would be sure proof that he was not indifferent to her. “Otherwise, what could there be in my secret to pain and annoy her?”

And then he set himself to work out the problem how she could have found anything in his mother’s boudoir to enlighten her on this point. He had not solved it to his satisfaction when the train whistled its way into London, and he was obliged to attend to the more practical details of his journey. He found, on consulting the time-table, that there was no train which stopped at Westhampton until the morning express, and, therefore, he decided to go to a hotel, and get a few hours’ rest.

He was not naturally vain, but it did strike him that he should gain in the end by this delay, as a battered-looking, travel-stained, wobegone man would not make his appearance on the Turoy scene with much effect. And he could not afford to dispense with a single advantage in the contest before him, for he knew the adversary he had to deal with, and that if once he gave Lady Gwendolyn the chance of making a jest at his expense he was undone.

She was one of those women who would forgive a lover for having committed a crime, but would never pardon him if he made himself ridiculous. So that Colonel Dacre gave himself seven good hours’ sleep, and started the next morning in excellent health and spirits.

The journey was a long one, but with hope for a companion time passes so quickly, and whenever he was beginning to grow weary he refreshed himself by picturing Lady Gwendolyn’s blush and smile, her well-feigned surprise, her delicious embarrassment, her mutinous grace, as she welcomed him to her “mansion.”

The train only stopped at a few of the largest stations; but at Preston there was a halt of ten minutes, and he went to get himself a biscuit and a glass of sherry. As he returned to the platform to regain his carriage, he ran up against a lady whose figure struck him as familiar.

Nothing could be simpler than this lady’s dress, and yet it was worn with an elegance that suggested strange possibilities to his mind, and made him follow the owner curiously. She seemed startled and annoyed by his scrutiny, although the thick Shetland veil she was wearing not only concealed, but distorted her features so much that it was impossible to recognize her, supposing even she had been the person he had come northward to seek.

But his suspicions had never taken that direction for a moment. This lady was taller than Lady Gwendolyn by at least a couple of inches, and there was a sort of insolence in her bearing which Colonel Dacre seemed to know only too well.

In spite of himself, he thought of Lady Teignmouth, and, wondering what mischief was hidden under this disguise, kept close to her heels. She quickened her pace, and presently, to his surprise, jumped into a third-class carriage.

A common man in the corner moved forward to make room for her, and evidently recognized her superiority, for he said, almost respectfully:

“Won’t you come here, miss? you’ll find it more comfortable.”

“Thank you, zir, I am sure,” answered the other, with an abominable accent. “Although, for the matter of that, bad’s the best.”

Colonel Dacre waited to hear no more. He was quite satisfied now that the young person in the Shetland veil was some lady’s-maid, who had learned to copy her mistress successfully enough to deceive an outsider, until she opened her mouth. Then there could be no doubt about her social status whatever; and it quite amused him to picture Lady Teignmouth’s horror, supposing she had been told that he had taken a third-class passenger, with a northern burr, for her aristocratic self.

The rest of the journey passed without further incident.

On getting down at Westhampton, Colonel Dacre found himself looking out rather curiously for the heroine of his little adventure at Preston; but she was not there, nor in the third-class carriage where he had seen her last, so that either she had changed her seat, or had got down at one of the intermediate stations.

“Anyhow, it doesn’t matter to me,” he said to himself. “I have had abundant proof that it is not Lady Teignmouth, and that was all I wanted to know.”

There was one rickety fly waiting outside the station, and Colonel Dacre engaged it at once, and told the man to drive direct to Turoy Grange. It was only four miles off, but the roads were so bad, the country so hilly, and the poor horse so groggy, that it was an hour and a half before they came in sight of Turoy, a little cluster of cottages, with a small, gray church tower rising out of their midst.

Another steep ascent brought them into the village; they stopped in front of a low, old-fashioned house.

“This is the Grange, zurr,” said the coachman; and Colonel Dacre jumped out gladly.

Then he rang the bell, and as he heard it echo through the silent house, a sudden nervous fear seized him lest he should have done ill in coming.

Lady Gwendolyn was so peculiar that the thing which would have helped him with another woman might ruin him with her. Nobody answered his first summons, nor his second; but when he rang a third time he heard a step along the hall, and the door opened at last—slowly and reluctantly.

A respectable-looking middle-aged woman presented herself, and evidently regarded Colonel Dacre with great disfavor.

“What may you be pleased to want?” she asked, with cold civility.

“I want to see Lady Gwendolyn St. Maur.”

“She isn’t at home,” replied the woman, and she was about to shut the door again in his face.

But he was prepared for this movement, and had inserted his knee in the aperture, that he might have time for parley.

“I suppose she is staying at Turoy? Lady Teignmouth gave me this address.”

But even the countess’ name and authority could not soften the woman, who seemed to take her post as door-keeper much too strictly, unless she had received stringent orders.

“Whether she is or she isn’t staying at Turoy, she isn’t in this house now,” was the reply, spoken with great determination.

“Perhaps she has gone out for a walk?” the colonel observed, trying an indirect question.

“Perhaps she has.”

“In that case, I think I had better call again later, don’t you?”

“Just as you like; it’s no affair of mine.”

Colonel Dacre’s temper was naturally good, but it began to fail him a little now.

“I should have fancied you were left in the house on purpose to give information,” he said. “Anyhow, you might as well give a civil answer to a civil question. I am sure Lady Gwendolyn would not consider that you served her interests by being rude to her visitors.”

“Her ladyship knows too well about me for anything people might say to trouble her,” answered the woman quietly. “I do my duty, so far as I know how; and I can’t help the rest. If her ladyship came down here it is because she wants rest and quiet; but, of course, if she told me to let in a whole regiment I should obey her.”

“Then she has told you not to admit any one?”

“I never said so, sir.”

“At any rate, I shall return in a couple of hours,” responded Colonel Dacre, irritated almost beyond endurance, and he turned on his heel and marched briskly away.

He looked back when he reached the gate, and caught just one glimpse of a graceful dark head at one of the windows; but it was withdrawn before he had time to identify it. And he went on his way, wondering if Lady Gwendolyn was as false as her sister-in-law, or if she was one of those women who love to torture those in their power.

He adjourned to the village inn, and ordered a bottle of wine, simply for the sake of getting into conversation with the landlord, who seemed much gratified when he was told to bring a second glass and help himself. The sherry was potent, and loosened mine host’s tongue.

What sort of a neighborhood was it? Why, as poor as poor could be. He never got any genteel custom from week’s end to week’s end, and that was very trying to a man who had lived in good families before he took up with the public line, and liked to keep in his own set.

“I suppose you don’t supply the Grange, then?” said Colonel Dacre, looking as innocent as a dove.

“Bless you, sir, there’s no supplying as far as the Grange goes. The lady it belongs to doesn’t come to Turoy more than once a year, and then she is a teetotaller.”

“That is very unfortunate,” returned Colonel Dacre sympathetically. “I suppose she isn’t here now?”

“That I can’t tell you, sir. Her coming or going doesn’t make much difference to me, although some people are delighted enough.”

“Perhaps she is good to the poor?”

“Well, I believe she is that,” he admitted. “But I am afraid you don’t like the wine, sir. You see, having so little trade in that way, I can’t afford to keep much of a stock.”

“Oh, no; you are quite right,” answered the colonel. “Have you a decent bed for me, supposing I decide to remain at Turoy to-night?”

“The best in the world, sir; I’ll answer for that,” responded mine host. “And I shall be proud of your patronage and recommendation.”

Colonel Dacre strolled out into the village to pass away the time, and it was growing dusk when he presented himself once more at Lady Gwendolyn’s door. This time it was answered by a stalwart, weather-beaten man of about fifty, who, in reply to his question, said, civilly, that her ladyship was not at home.

“Could I see her if I called in the morning?” pursued the colonel.

“I doubt if she’ll be at home then; but, of course, you must do as you like about the calling.”

“The fact is, I want to see Lady Gwendolyn upon particular business,” added Colonel Dacre impressively. “I am sure she would not refuse to receive me if she knew this, and I should be really obliged if you would mention it to her. Or would it be better if I wrote a line, and explained matters myself?”

“I should almost think it would, sir.”

“Yes, but is she sure to get my letter?”

“I don’t fancy anybody would steal it, sir,” replied the man shortly.

“I didn’t mean that, of course; but if she is not here it could be forwarded, I suppose?”

“There would be no difficulty about that.”

Colonel Dacre tried to slip a sovereign into his hand, but the man was evidently obtuse, for he let it drop, and seemed quite surprised when he heard it ring on the stone floor.

“You are losing your money, sir,” he said; and, having picked it up, he handed it back with such a virtuously reproachful air that Colonel Dacre dared not so much as hint that it was for him, and restored it to his pocket in rather a crestfallen way.

He went back to the inn to secure his bed, and then he returned to the charge. Seating himself on a bank just outside the gate of the Grange, he watched the house and garden both.

Half an hour passed without incident. The evening began to darken perceptibly, and he saw a light in one of the lower windows, and the outline of the female dragon’s head, but she was evidently a discreet woman, for she quickly drew down the blind, and raised it no more.

But though it must have been quite dark indoors by this time, there was no other sign of the house being inhabited.

He was beginning to think that he had come on a wild-goose chase, and that Lady Gwendolyn might be at the other end of England, after all, when suddenly his heart began to tremble and his pulses to quicken. He had caught sight of a white figure standing in the porch, and fancied he knew that this was Lady Gwendolyn.

She stepped daintily out from under a trellis-work of roses and clematis, and looked from side to side, as if she were in search of some one.

“Does she regret her cruelty just now?” he asked himself, his breath coming short and fast from an intense eagerness of expectancy, while the wild longing within him almost frightened him, as a sign of the terrible empire this passion was gaining.

It might be so, for she glided forward to the gate like a spirit; and, standing there, looked down the road with something wistful in her attitude, as it seemed to him. He had almost decided to step forward and accost her, when she drew back suddenly, as if something had frightened her, and turned down a little path with shrubs on either side.

He had not seen her face distinctly, for she had a white shawl over her head, and was holding it close under her chin to protect her from the night air; but he could have no doubt that this was Lady Gwendolyn.

He got up and followed.

He saw her walking slowly, and looking about her with the expectant air he had noticed at first; then suddenly she paused, a dark figure stepped out of the shadow of the trees, and Colonel Dacre, with a jealous thrill, saw Lady Gwendolyn’s creamy fingers pressed fervently against the newcomer’s black mustache.

How he restrained himself from rushing forward and confronting the pair he never knew. At this moment he felt like a murderer, and thirsted for the blood of this rival, whom Lady Gwendolyn preferred to himself.

She had carried her coquetry cruelly far, for she had won his whole heart, and had left him only just sense enough to suffer and regret.

So false and yet so fair. Oh! why had he not been warned in time? He could have given her up easily in the first days. Now, although he knew all her perfidy, and believed her to have neither conscience nor feeling, he could not drag his love up by the roots, although it must needs be his sorrow and shame. When she passed her arm through the man’s, with a few soft words he could not catch, and they moved away together, Colonel Dacre did not follow.

He was too honorable to seek to surprise their confidence, and, moreover, he was afraid of himself. If he met this man face to face he should kill him like a dog, for the old Cain was rampant in him at the moment, and he felt that his only chance was flight.

With a few bounds he reached the open space in front of the house, dashed through the gate, and hurried back to the Sun. He ordered something to be cooked for his supper, in order that he might not be disturbed just yet and then he shut himself in his own room—out of temptation’s way—thank Heaven for that! for it made him tremble to think how near he had been that night to committing a terrible crime.

When the fowl was ready, it was necessary to go down, and make a pretense of eating—of course. The landlord waited on him himself, and as he removed the cover, with a flourish, he said:

“You were asking if her ladyship was at the Grange, sir, this afternoon——”

“Well?” exclaimed Colonel Dacre, turning sharply round in his eagerness.

“I have ascertained that she arrived to-day.”

Colonel Dacre could not answer for a minute, he felt as if he were choking. He began to carve the fowl to gain time; and, having divided every joint, and distributed the pieces over the dish for mine host to hand round to some imaginary guest, he managed to say at last, with well-feigned indifference:

“Indeed; I suppose she came alone?”

“I suppose so, sir—she always does.”

There was a moment’s pause; and then he added cheerfully:

“This has been a stirring day, sir; it isn’t often we have two bedrooms occupied, and two suppers to cook. I wish it would occur oftener, I am sure. Sherry, sir?”

“Yes, yes,” answered the colonel feverishly; and he pushed forward his tumbler instead of his wine-glass; emptying it at a draft, as if it contained water, as soon as it was filled.

He was a very abstemious man generally, but he did not know what he was drinking to-night. His one thought was to slake his consuming thirst with whatever came easiest to hand.

“I am afraid you have a poor appetite, sir,” observed mine host, after watching him toy with a merrythought, like a delicate girl, and he filled up the tumbler again.

Colonel Dacre lifted it to his lips once more, and set it down half empty this time. He had fasted all day, and felt strangely excited by what he had taken, although it would have had no effect under different circumstances. Ordering the table to be cleared, he lighted a cigar, and began to smoke it slowly, his somber glance fixed on the open window, while he listened for every sound.

Presently the church clock struck twelve solemnly out in the darkness, making him start in his chair, and recalling him to the fact that his cigar had gone out. He tossed it through the window, and lighted another. He was in that nervous, overwrought state when his whole body seemed full of pulses, and his temples kept up a measured, oppressive beat.

Colonel Dacre fancied he knew who mine host’s other guest would be; but he had sworn to himself only to listen for his step. Though he was calm now, and could trust himself, it would be a terrible risk to see the face of Lady Gwendolyn’s lover, lest they should meet again one day when he was not master of himself.

Presently a step came along the road—a firm, brisk step, which had a cheerful sound—the step of a happy lover, who had brought away tender memories with him, and still feels the sweetness of a timid parting kiss lingering on his lips.

Colonel Dacre sat back firmly in his chair, and covered his eyes. But when the door opened he glanced up mechanically, and there stood the man he had sworn not to look upon for his soul’s sake.

The other drew back at once, with a hurried apology for his mistake, and a courteous bow; but Colonel Dacre knew that wherever they might meet he should recognize him again, and that the cool, proud face, with its insolent beauty, would be from henceforth imprinted on his brain.

CHAPTER V.

WOMAN’S WAYS.

Of course it is very comfortable to be a philosopher. When people have once succeeded in persuading themselves that it is as easy to reason as to feel, it is wonderful how smoothly life ends.

As Colonel Dacre sat in the little inn parlor that night, he tried hard to attain that enviable state of mind, and to be able to say, with a shrug of the shoulder:

“If she be not fair for me,

What care I how fair she be.”

But it would not do. He did care, and so much, that he could have dashed his head against the wall for very rage and misery.

But there was one thing he could not understand, and that was why Lady Teignmouth took so much interest in seeing him disenchanted. She must have sent him to Turoy, knowing quite well whom he would meet there, and enjoying the thought of his pain. It was strange to find a young and handsome woman so cruel—and he had never harmed her—that she should take pleasure in dealing him such a blow. But for some reason she was his enemy; and as he began to divine how utterly unscrupulous she was, the idea was not an agreeable one, by any means.

He passed the livelong night pondering, trying to come to some resolution; but unable to form any plan, so entirely stunned was he to find that the woman he had loved so chivalrously was unworthy of his long devotion.

Of course it would have been more dignified to leave Turoy early in the morning, and this had been his first intention; but as the night wore on a softer feeling intervened, and he decided that he must see Gwendolyn once more.

For two years now she had been the star of his life—his one only thought. To win her at last he had been ready to possess his soul in patience, and the longing was still strong on him to look on her again, ere he went sorrowfully into exile for her sake.

As dawn began to break, he went softly up-stairs, and lay down for awhile without undressing. When he heard people about below he was glad to rise again, and go out for a walk. Nothing was harder than to be inactive when his thoughts stung him like very swords.

On returning to the inn, two hours later, he heard, to his relief, that mine host’s other guest had already breakfasted, and was gone, taking his carpetbag with him.

“And quite the gentleman I am sure he was,” observed the landlord, smiling benignantly; “for he paid his bill without even looking at the items.”

“A hint for me,” thought the colonel, as he sat down to breakfast, with his face toward the Grange, a glimpse of which could be seen through the open window.

But it was not until nearly eleven o’clock that he saw the gate open, and Lady Gwendolyn came forth, her perfect figure showing to advantage in a closely fitting dark serge dress, while a jaunty little hat, garnished by a red feather, shaded, without concealing, her beautiful face. He fancied her manner was listless, and preoccupied, and she kept her eyes on the ground as she advanced. Nothing, however, showed her conscious of his scrutiny, and she did not so much as even glance toward his window as she went by.

Now, if the colonel had been a philosopher, here was a chance of airing his theories. But we have already said that he was nothing of the sort, and so he caught up his hat, and hurried after Lady Gwendolyn as fast as he could.

He came up with her just as she was crossing a stile leading into some meadows. She turned abruptly, and, startled by such a sudden apparition, would have fallen to the ground had he not put out his arm to save her.

For one brief, delicious, maddening moment she was leaning against his breast—so close that a stray lock of her dark hair blew across his lips, while the bewildering perfume he knew so well was fast stealing his senses, and weakening all his fine resolutions.

But directly she recovered her footing she disengaged herself, and changed rapidly from white to red, and then from red to white again, while she thanked him, in a constrained manner, for his assistance.

“I am not accustomed to these high stiles,” she said. And then she added coldly: “What brought you here, Colonel Dacre?”

“Isn’t the country worth seeing, Lady Gwendolyn?”

“Quite; only people never do come here to see the country.”

“There is ‘metal more attractive,’ perhaps.”

“Perhaps.” And she looked into his eyes unflinchingly, while her color wavered again. “Although I have retired from the world I have taken no vows, and am, therefore, still at liberty to welcome my friends.”

“Then I am forced to conclude that you do not look upon me as a friend, since you refused to see me last night?”

“I was not able to do so,” she answered coldly.

“I know; you were better employed.”

“Was I? You seem to be wonderfully well informed as to my movements, Colonel Dacre.”

“Too well, Lady Gwendolyn. But allow me to congratulate you upon having so quickly recovered from your sprain. You seemed to be suffering so much that afternoon I left you on the couch in my mother’s boudoir I almost feared you would not be able to walk for some time.”

The mere shadow of a smile hovered on Lady Gwendolyn’s red mouth; but she suppressed it directly, and said:

“A woman can generally manage to do anything she wants to do.”

“And you walked back to the Castle?”

“Really, Colonel Dacre, you are exceedingly curious!”

“I must confess that I am. Nobody likes to be deceived.”

“It isn’t pleasant, certainly,” she answered, with a bitter smile. “But women are quite accustomed to that sort of thing, you know.”

“Accustomed to deceive, you mean, of course.”

Lady Gwendolyn turned from him disdainfully.

“You, at any rate, ought to be indulgent to a failing of this kind, Colonel Dacre, since you have lived a lie, so to speak, for a great many years.”

He uttered a sharp exclamation of surprise at such an extraordinary accusation.

“What do you mean?” he inquired at last. “You are surely dreaming, Lady Gwendolyn.”

“I wish I were!” and there was a ring of passionate regret in her voice. “If all the world had disappointed me, I would still have sworn that you were true, until—until the day before yesterday.”

“And then?”

“And then I knew the truth.”

“What truth? Upon my word and honor, I have not the least idea what you mean?”

“Come, Colonel Dacre, is it worth while to deny anything to me? I do not accuse you, remember; I have no right; I simply state a fact. It is a pity you sought the meeting I would have avoided, for it must needs humiliate you as it pains me.”

“There is nothing in my past that humiliates me in the smallest degree. I have had great sorrows, but they were not brought about by any fault of my own. I came here to seek you because I considered that you owed me an explanation, and I did not choose you should be able to say that I could not defend myself against your implied accusation. But what I saw last night has altered my feeling in the matter, and if I sought you this morning it was only because I am a miserable, weak stupid, and wanted to see your face once more before we parted, never to meet again, I trust, on this side of the grave.”

Lady Gwendolyn had turned very pale, but her pride sustained her still, for the stately head never lowered itself one inch, and her full under lip curled in a disdainful smile.

“You must have seen some strange things last night to change your intentions and feelings so suddenly, Colonel Dacre.”

He was silent. Her calm effrontery was so startling that it seemed almost as easy at the moment to doubt his own eyes as to doubt her. But then she was only a fine actress, of course. She was so greedy of power that she could not bear to lose a single worshiper, and would have kept him at any cost if he showed that he was weak enough to give her his heart to toy with and break.

“The things that I saw last night were not strange,” he said hoarsely. “I dare say they would have seemed natural enough to any other looker-on, but, as I told you before, I am a miserable stupid; I believed in all women, and you above the rest; and now——”

“And now?” she echoed softly as he paused.

“And now I believe in none; and in you, least of all.”

“You are more candid than complimentary, Colonel Dacre.”

“Perhaps—I cannot flatter.”

“It would be almost better if you tried to acquire the accomplishment,” she returned haughtily. “People who pride themselves upon being frank are exceedingly bad company.”

“At any rate, I sha’n’t be in your way long, Lady Gwendolyn. I leave Turoy in a couple of hours.”

“For Borton Hall?”

And if he had been a coxcomb he would have detected the ring of suppressed eagerness in her voice.

“For a couple of days only. I am going abroad, and shall not probably return for three or four years—if then; so that I have a few arrangements to make with my steward. I shall let the Hall, if I can get a good tenant.”

“You cannot do better,” she said, with sudden, almost stern decision. “You have no right to live there, as it were, under false pretenses.”

“I really don’t understand you, Lady Gwendolyn, and must beg you will explain.”

“I did not understand you just now, Colonel Dacre; but I did not demand an explanation.”

“You had a perfect right to do so.”

“Possibly; but it is not my habit. If people take a pleasure in misjudging me——”

“A pleasure?” he interrupted vehemently. “Oh! if you only knew what it cost me last night to believe what I saw.”

“Then why did you believe it?”

“I could not help myself.”

“I make it a point of never believing anything I don’t wish to believe,” she said slowly and determinedly. “After all, it is so easy to make mistakes——”

“Under some circumstances. But if you actually see a person——”

“Then, of course, you cannot make a mistake. But people sometimes fancy they see things, you know. To be absolutely certain myself I should require to look into another’s face—so close that I could not be wrong, otherwise I would not allow myself to condemn even my greatest enemy. I have a great many faults, I know, but I always strive to be just.”

“And yet, you condemned me unheard, Lady Gwendolyn.”

“When?” she asked.

For sole answer he took from his pocketbook the little note she had left on the table of his mother’s room the day of her pretended accident, and held it up before her eyes.

“Well?” she said half defiantly.

“Was that either just or true?”

“It was true, anyhow.”

“You cannot prove it, Lady Gwendolyn. I should be an idiot, indeed, if, having a secret to guard——”

“Which you admitted,” put in Lady Gwendolyn.

“Or, rather say, which I did not deny. But I repeat that I should have been an idiot indeed if, under these circumstances, I had introduced you into the very room where you would find something to betray me.”

“There was nothing in that room to betray you.”

“Where, then?”

“I am not bound to say.”

“I think you are, for your own sake. I am sure you would not like me to think that you had taken any mean advantage of the small courtesy it was such a great pleasure to me to show you.”

“How can it signify to me what you think?” she flashed round upon him to say.

His silence was a rebuke, and shamed her as no words could have done. She colored hotly up to the very roots of her hair.

“I mean,” she added, “that you would be sure to misunderstand me.”

“On the contrary, Lady Gwendolyn.”

“Anyhow, I will tell you nothing. I have a right to my secrets as well as you.”

“Just as you like,” he said, bowing coldly. “It is better so, perhaps. But I am keeping you from your walk, Lady Gwendolyn. Let me thank you before I go for the many pleasant hours you have allowed me to pass in your company. The memory of them will always be both a pleasure and a pang.”

He could almost have vowed that he saw two large tears in her dark eyes; nevertheless, she said, carelessly enough to outward appearance:

“It is not very probable that I shall ever cause you another pang, so that you can afford to pardon me. I have quite made up my mind not to return to Teignmouth.”

“I suppose one may expect to hear of your marriage shortly?” he observed, conscious of another pang at this moment—a pang so strong that it whitened his very lips, and made his heart tremble within him.

“My marriage? No, thank you. You are much more likely to hear of my taking the veil.”

“You are the last person I know to do such a thing as that, Lady Gwendolyn. You are too fond of the world to desert it.”

“You think so?” she answered, with a gravity that surprised him. “I suppose the kind of intercourse you and I have had makes it impossible that you should understand me.”

“And you think that I was flirting with you, Lady Gwendolyn?” he said, in a stifled voice.

“Assuredly; and why not?”

“I should not have dreamed of insulting you thus. The whole aim and ambition of my life was to win you for my wife—that I swear.”

“And yet you say you would not have dreamed of insulting me.”

“By professing what I did not feel, I meant!”

“Or promising what you could not perform?”

“I never did such a thing in my life, Lady Gwendolyn.”

“According to your own account you were on the brink of it a little while ago. What right have you to ask any woman to be your wife? And, supposing she accepted you, what, then?” inquired Lady Gwendolyn, with angry vehemence.

“Why, then, we should marry, I presume.”

“How could you?”

“I see no just cause or impediment, Lady Gwendolyn!”

“Then I am sorry for you, that is all. I can understand people’s doing wrong from the evil impulse of the moment; but it must be a very bad man indeed who would commit a deliberate fraud, and ruin the woman who trusted in him.”

“I don’t understand why my marriage would have such terrible consequences, Lady Gwendolyn. One would think that I was a monster in human form.”

And then, in spite of himself, he smiled to think how completely Lady Gwendolyn had turned the tables upon him. He had joined her, intending simply to bid her adieu, in order that he might look once more on the fatal beauty that had stolen his heart away, and if any conversation did take place he certainly pictured himself as the accuser, whereas he had done little else but defend himself, and had only been able to get in his own complaints edgewise.

Decidedly Lady Gwendolyn understood the art, and also the advantage, of carrying the war into the enemy’s country. And yet, though he had seen her in the arms of another man, and knew her to be an unprincipled coquette, how he yearned after her, his mad infatuation increasing as he gazed, until he felt as if he could not give her up were she twenty times worse than she was.

He drew near to her with a look in his eyes no woman can misunderstand even when she sees it for the first time. His lips were trembling with the eager, passionate words that flowed up from his heart; his face was as white as death.

“Gwendolyn,” he said hoarsely, “you must despise me as much as I despise myself, but I cannot let you go.”

The hour of her supreme triumph had come—the hour she had panted for, and longed for even in her dreams. This man, who had resisted her so long, was at her feet now, in spite of himself, and for one moment her victory seemed very sweet.

Then a revulsion of feeling came over her, and she hated him as intensely as she had loved him before. If he despised himself for falling into her power, if he was only in love with her beauty and would still win her for that when he deemed her unworthy of any finer sentiment, her victory was no better really than a defeat.

She drew away from him quickly, and burst into a passion of tears.

“You are right,” she sobbed out; “I do despise you; but I despise myself still more. How horribly I must have lowered myself to inspire such a feeling as you have dared confess. At least, you might have spared me the knowledge, Colonel Dacre, if only because I am of the same sex as your mother.”

“Gwendolyn, you don’t understand me. I am asking you to be my wife.”

“Which is the greatest insult of all,” she responded. “Oh! go away—pray, pray go away. I would rather be alone.”

“Give me my answer first, Lady Gwendolyn?”

“You have had your answer.”

He opened his mouth to reply, when suddenly Lady Gwendolyn’s face assumed an expression of stolid composure, and she added, in a loud, formal voice:

“I am afraid you will find this a very dull place, Colonel Dacre. Beyond a little fishing, there is really nothing for a gentleman to do. Oh! is that really you, Captain Wyndham?” holding out her hand cordially, to a tall, pale man, who had approached them without attracting her companion’s attention. “Allow me to introduce you to Colonel Dacre—a near neighbor of my brother’s, at Teignmouth.”

The two men bowed to each other coldly. It is odd how quickly lovers scent a rival, and no very friendly look passed between them; although, outwardly, each assumed to be gratified at making the other’s acquaintance. But Colonel Dacre was too agitated to be able to keep up this farce long, and, pleading business, left the two together. But instead of going on to the station, according to his original intention, he returned to the inn, and took possession once more of the little parlor he had occupied the day before.

He cursed his own folly bitterly; but even if this woman destroyed him, he could not tear himself away from her now. The very air she breathed was sweet to him, and yet, poor deluded mortal, he had fancied it possible to escape from her toils.

That day passed like a dream. In comparison with the agitated ones that followed it seemed so vague and colorless to Colonel Dacre, that it slipped from his memory later as if it had never been.

He saw no sign of Lady Gwendolyn again, and the Grange windows did not betray her presence. At dusk he ventured out for a stroll, and mechanically—guided by fate, no doubt—he crossed the stile that led into Turoy Wood—a pretty shaded walk in the sunny part of the day, but almost dark now.

He walked on steadily for about half an hour, finding it a relief from the worry of his thoughts to be moving, and minding little where he went.

But presently he came back to himself with a start. He distinctly heard, a few paces in front of him, the voice of the man who had roused all the Cain in him, and made him afraid of himself. And he knew, by the sudden wild riot in his pulses, and the mad jealousy in his heart, that he was no better to be trusted than before, and so, to his infinite regret later, he hurried from the spot, and made his way back to the inn as fast as he could.

He did not even feel safe until he had bolted the parlor door, although Mr. Wiginton distinctly said he did not expect another customer that night, and shut up the house at eleven o’clock, as usual.

Colonel Dacre went to his room then, even undressed, and lay down, although he knew sleeping was out of the question. He heard all the hours strike up to three o’clock, and then he fell into what seemed like a doze, although all his senses were unnaturally acute. So acute, indeed, that when he heard a groan presently, he knew what direction it had proceeded from, and did not wait for a repetition to spring out of bed, and hurry into his clothes.

In another minute he was down the stairs, and, unbolting the door softly, so as not to disturb mine host, he found himself in the garden.

Another groan, fainter though than the first, guided him to a little copse by the roadside, where lay, apparently in the agonies of death, Lady Gwendolyn’s “braw wooer,” the man whose splendid privileges he had envied the night before.

For one cruel moment Colonel Dacre rejoiced to see his enemy laid so low; but better feelings intervened, and he remembered nothing but that the other was in a sore strait, and needed his aid.

He knelt down beside him, and said quite gently:

“I am afraid you are hurt. Have you had an accident?”

The dim eyes unclosed, and the blue lips muttered a word faintly. But although Colonel Dacre bent close down he could not catch it, and he shook his head expressively.

The dying man made a great effort, and repeated, in a loud whisper:

“Poisoned.”

“By whom?” inquired Colonel Dacre, resolutely but reluctantly.

But the poor creature’s mind had wandered off, and he babbled of “Mother” incoherently, as if he fancied he were a child again.

Colonel Dacre would have fetched some brandy from the inn, but as he saw that no human means could avail aught, he considered it better to remain where he was.

Almost involuntarily he began to repeat the beautiful prayer with which most of us begin and end our day, and when he came to “Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive them that trespass against us,” the dying man raised himself on his elbow, and said, loudly and distinctly:

“Tell her I forgive her, and——”

But the sentence was never finished in this world. He fell back heavily on the turf, and when Colonel Dacre looked into his face he saw that he was gone.

CHAPTER VI.

THE LAST WALTZ.

For fully five minutes Colonel Dacre knelt beside the lifeless body, then he rose up stern and resolute to do his duty. First of all he roused Wiginton, and had the dead man carried into the inn, and laid on the bed he had occupied twenty-four hours ago. Wiginton evidently thought that it was a case of sudden death, for he said, with real feeling:

“Poor gentleman! And he looked so healthy, too. Hadn’t I better go for a doctor, sir?”

“Perhaps you had; although it will be of no use,” was Colonel Dacre’s reply.

“I dare say not; but it might have an ugly look if we tried to hush the thing up, sir.”

Colonel Dacre saw the reasonableness of this argument, although it had not occurred to him in the agitated preoccupation of the moment. He promised to watch beside the dead man while Mr. Wiginton went to the village to fetch the doctor. But it so happened that Doctor Dale had been up all night with a patient, and was just passing the house on his way home as Wiginton issued forth.

His visit was a mere matter of form, naturally. As there were no signs of violence on the body Doctor Dale drew the same conclusion as Wiginton, that the man died by the visitation of God. He put a few questions to Colonel Dacre, as to whether he knew the deceased gentleman, or had any reason to suppose that he had been the victim of foul play. And on the other replying in the negative he seemed perfectly satisfied, and said he would go home and get a little rest, and send round to the coroner later in the morning.

“He has probably died from heart-disease,” he concluded, moving toward the door. “But that we shall ascertain, I have no doubt.”

“You will have a post-mortem examination, I suppose.”

“Certainly; at least, I have no doubt of it whatever.”

“You are not prepared, then, to give a certificate as to the cause of death?”

“Well, not exactly. I like to be very careful in these matters, as one’s reputation is often at stake. This gentleman’s family will investigate the case thoroughly we may be sure, and I think it is better to be beforehand with them. You say you have no idea who the poor fellow is?”

“Not the faintest. But he may have letters in his pocket that would enlighten us.”

“Possibly,” replied Doctor Dale, coming back from the door. “It would be as well to look.”

But save an ordinary-looking cigar-case there was nothing whatever in the dead man’s pockets. It almost seemed, indeed, as if this were a precaution, and not an accident, for the mark on his pocket handkerchief had been cut out, and the initials on the cigar-case defaced.

Doctor Dale was not a suspicious man, evidently, for this did not appear to strike him as strange. He simply remarked as he moved away again:

“The police will, no doubt, be able to trace him. It would be as well if you were to communicate with them at once, Wiginton, I think. I must get home to bed or I shall be good for nothing all day,” he added half apologetically, “and I am nearly worn out. I owe it to my patients as well as to myself to take rest when I can, for no doctor can trust to his head when it is confused for want of sleep.”

“I have no doubt you are quite right,” answered Colonel Dacre, with a secret thrill of satisfaction, for he wanted, above all things, to gain time. “It is often necessary to consider oneself for the sake of others.”

“I shall see you later, of course?” said Doctor Dale, as he departed for his well-earned repose, and Colonel Dacre nodded.

He had no wish to shirk any inquiry, so far as he was personally concerned, but he meant to shelter the guilty, wretched woman whom he loved still, in spite of himself, and then forget her—if he could!

If he could! Ah! that was a painful proviso; for, somehow, he could only think of her even now—standing over her victim—as he had known her in the early days of her innocent girlhood, when he had believed her to be as true as steel, and as worthy of his worship as any saint.

And this was her work. How thankful he was to escape from its contemplation, and lock the door on the white face, which was fast settling into the solemn calm of death, no words can tell.

He followed Wiginton down-stairs, and when mine host, who looked thoroughly overcome, suggested that a glass of brandy would not come amiss, Colonel Dacre welcomed the suggestion, and felt much fortified for the task before him, when he had taken a good dose of the stimulant. Then he went to the Grange. He determined that he would see Lady Gwendolyn at once—even if he had to steal into her house like a thief—for her only chance was to escape before the post-mortem examination made the cause of death evident, and set the police on the track of the murderer.

The dead man’s presence at Turoy once traced to her influence, and their secret meetings known, there would be no hope of her getting away; and though she deserved her fate, as he was fain to confess, he meant to save her, even if he perished in her place. But as he was leaving the inn, Wiginton said rather dubiously:

“It’s no use my going to the village after the police, for Lady Lenox sent for the inspector over to her place last night, I heard them say. At her last ball some thieves got into the house, and stole a good deal of plate, so that she determined to have somebody to watch the house this time. I suppose I had better go there, sir, hadn’t I?”

“If you are sure to find him.”

“There’s no doubt about that. I saw him outside the fly that took her ladyship to the ball. It came from the George, and I suppose the driver gave him a lift so far on his way.”

“Do you mean that Lady Gwendolyn St. Maur went to the ball, Mr. Wiginton?”

“I believe so, sir. The two families were always intimate, and it isn’t likely they would leave her out.”

“But she would surely have returned by this time.”

“I think not. Lady Lenox is noted for keeping up her balls until six or seven o’clock in the morning, and those who can stand such hours have breakfast before they go home. She is a very excitable person, and always turns night into day.”

Colonel Dacre looked at his watch.

“It is not ten minutes past four,” he said. “How long would it take us to go to Lady Lenox’s house?”

“About half an hour, sir. But I needn’t take you—surely?”

“I should prefer to accompany you, as I want to see somebody whom I am likely to find there. But we had better be quick.”

“I am ready, sir,” answered Wiginton; and they started at a brisk pace for Bridgton Hall.

About half-way there they met the inspector with his two men on their way home, looking none the worse for their night’s watch, thanks to their numerous visits to the butler’s pantry. Colonel Dacre heard from them that the ball was virtually over, but that a few favorite guests still remained, although they could not exactly say who these last were.

“However, Lady Gwendolyn St. Maur is one,” added the inspector, volunteering the information Colonel Dacre dared not ask; “for the driver from the George was asleep in the harness-room when I left; and I don’t expect he would have stayed there unless he had been obliged.”

It did not seem probable, certainly, and so Colonel Dacre left Wiginton to return with the inspector, and went on alone.

Of course Lady Gwendolyn had gone to the ball, and, of course, she would be the gayest of them all, outwardly, for had she not a secret to hide? He could not help pitying her somehow. She had put her hand to a terrible thing, but maybe she had had a scoundrel to deal with, and had been sorely tempted, poor, unhappy child!

His heart was beginning to soften strangely when he came within sight and sound of Bridgton Hall, but it hardened again as he paused to listen to a waltz he knew only too well. Surely that must be Lady Gwendolyn’s touch—her spirited playing. For the band had been dismissed, evidently, and they were keeping up the ball to the music of the piano, which came surging through the open windows and out into the dewy shrubberies as if it would have the young man listen and remember. And he did remember, to his torture.

The waltz finished as he drew near to the door, and two women came forward to the window, and stood there inhaling the freshness of the morning. Both were dressed in white: one looked flushed and excited under her wreath of water-lilies; the other, languid but lovely, turned her calm deep eyes his way, and, recognizing him, grew suddenly scarlet to the roots of her hair.

He stepped forward at once and lifted his hat, saying, in a cold, constrained voice:

“Might I speak with you a moment, Lady Gwendolyn?”

The color faded out of her face, but she looked up at him steadily and unflinchingly.

“I am afraid I have no time now, Colonel Dacre. I have ordered my fly, and expect it round every minute.”

“I will not detain your ladyship long,” he said; and his voice was like ice. “It is absolutely necessary that you should hear what I have to say, otherwise I would not disturb you at such a time and in such a place.”

She lifted her head with a haughty gesture.

“It is impossible you should have anything of so much importance to communicate to me, Colonel Dacre.”

“I think you will find that you are mistaken, Lady Gwendolyn.”

His stern, decided manner evidently startled her, for she turned to Lady Teignmouth, who was standing at her side, and said quietly:

“Has anything happened, Pauline? Reggie was quite well yesterday——”

Lady Teignmouth laughed a nervous, tuneless laugh.

“Don’t be absurd, Gwen! We should have been sure to hear if anything had been the matter.”

“Of course. I am very foolish to frighten myself so easily; but I am tired and nervous, I suppose. I wish Lady Lenox wouldn’t make me stay so long. I have tried to slip away half a dozen times at least, and she has caught me and carried me back. It is a great mistake, to my mind, to bring town habits and town hours into the country, where we are nothing if we are not rural.”

She yawned demonstratively as she spoke, and appeared to have forgotten Colonel Dacre’s very existence, until he reminded her of it by saying formally:

“Perhaps your ladyship will allow me to accompany you as far as Turoy? I am sorry to annoy you by persisting, but I must speak with you privately—for your own sake.”

“Oh, you horrible man!” exclaimed Lady Teignmouth, with playful impertinence. “You are always full of mysteries! When I last saw you at Teignmouth you had something very important and very secret to say to Gwen, you know.”

He colored resentfully, remembering how she had sent him to Turoy to meet the greatest sorrow of his life. Of course she could not know how tragically and painfully he was to be cured of his infatuation; but she certainly guessed that he would meet a successful rival at the Grange, and had taken a malicious pleasure in his discomfiture. He answered coldly:

“I don’t know why your ladyship should infer that what I had to say to Lady Gwendolyn the other day was at all secret or mysterious. I certainly gave you no grounds for such a belief.”

“You forget that women do not always need to be told things, Colonel Dacre.”

“They have no right to make sure of anything they have not been told,” he said shortly.

“What a miserable, matter-of-fact place the world would be if it were forbidden to exercise one’s imagination a little!”

“It would be safer, anyhow,” he replied; and as Lady Gwendolyn’s fly drove up at this moment, he opened the door and handed her in, a little surprised that she made no further objection to his plan.

Lady Teignmouth parted from them with a jest, followed by a laugh that sounded forced and unnatural at the moment, but struck him as strangely incongruous when, on looking back, he saw her standing still where they had left her, with such a haggard, troubled face, and intense eyes, that he shuddered, and wondered if a woman with that countenance could have an ordinary destiny.

“Well,” she observed at last, “I thought you wished to speak to me.”

He came back to himself with a start.

“So I did. It is necessary for your personal safety that you should know the truth at once. The gentleman whom you met in the wood last evening died two hours ago. He told me, with almost his last breath, that he had been poisoned, and sent you a message of forgiveness. All this will never transpire, of course, however wrong it may be of me to conceal the truth; but, unfortunately, there is likely to be a post-mortem examination, and in that case everything may come out. Are you prepared to face it?”

“What do you mean? Are you mad?” she exclaimed, with a look of apprehension that was really splendid acting. “You cannot wonder that I doubt your sanity, since a few hours ago you were pretending to love me, and now you actually dare to accuse me of a horrible crime.”

“Look here, Lady Gwendolyn,” he said hoarsely; “my love was no pretense, and you know it; my accusation is no falsehood, and you know that, too. I witnessed your first meeting with the wretched man who is dead. I know that you were together again last night, for I was in the wood at about nine o’clock, and I heard him address you in terms of reproach. Of course I witnessed nothing that passed after this, for I hurried away as fast as I could; but at three o’clock the poor creature, who had evidently tried to crawl to the inn for aid, died at the roadside, with his head on my arm; his last words being: ‘Tell her I forgive her, and——’ Perhaps you can fill up the hiatus. I pretend to understand nothing that I did not see and hear.”

She listened to him in stupefied silence, and when he had finished, she said, in a low, shrinking voice:

“Describe the man to me.”

Colonel Dacre had not forgotten his appearance, and drew his portrait accurately enough.

Lady Gwendolyn’s head sank lower and lower on her breast.

“And he told you he had been poisoned?” she asked.

“Yes; and a man does not lie at such a time.”

“He might have been mistaken,” she said, under her breath.

“Impossible!”

“You would rather believe the worst, I see.”

“On the contrary, I would give my right arm to be able to trust you, Lady Gwendolyn,” he cried vehemently. “If I live to be a hundred years old I shall never have such a sorrow as this—to be forced to judge the woman I loved better than my life.”

He expected a disdainful smile, but none came. She only passed her hand over her brow, as if she were confused. Then, suddenly, her lips took a resolute fold, and she lifted her head boldly.

“He did not mention my name?” she said.

“No.”

“Then you know nothing?”

“People do not commit such dark deeds before witnesses; but I fancy such evidence as I could give, if I chose, would hang any one.”

She shuddered convulsively—it was the first sign of actual fear she had shown.

“You surely can have no motive for interfering in the matter,” she said, after a long pause; and watching his face anxiously as she spoke.

“When I have warned you my part in the tragedy is played out, Lady Gwendolyn, so far as you are concerned. I shall have to appear at the inquest, of course; but I shall simply state there that I heard the poor man groan, and found him lying on the bank in a dying state.”

“And if they ask you if he spoke?”

“Then I shall tell a lie for the first time in my life,” he answered sternly. “I would not do it to save myself, but you——”

“Thank you,” she said, in a quiet, firm tone; “that was all I wanted to know. Perhaps one of these days you will understand things better than you do now, Colonel Dacre; meanwhile, I do not think you will reproach yourself much for what you have done this day—for—for”—hesitatingly—“things are not always as they seem. I don’t ask you to shake hands with me, although this is probably the last time we shall ever meet—and we were once friends—but I shall always remember you with gratitude.”

“And you will leave England at once?” he said, as the carriage stopped.

“Never mind about me; I can take care of myself,” she answered, and, jumping lightly down, she disappeared into the house.

Half an hour later a slight figure in black came stealthily out of the Grange; but instead of passing through the great gate, slipped round by the shrubberies and out into the road by a gap in the hedge. But Colonel Dacre, who was watching from his window, saw it plainly in spite of these precautions, and murmured fervently within himself:

“Thank Heaven, she has thought better of it, and is gone!”

CHAPTER VII.

A NOBLE SACRIFICE.

Through the lanes, swiftly, but ever so wearily, sped Lady Gwendolyn. Her eyes were dim with unshed tears—she had no time for womanly weakness—her lips were compressed, until they looked like a mere thread; her head drooped on to her bosom. She had never known what shame meant before, and she felt as if she should never be able to look her fellow creatures in the face again.

It took her half an hour only to reach Bridgton Hall—this morning. The stable clock was striking seven as she entered the grounds, and made her way hurriedly to the front door. Everything was very quiet, or seemed so to her, recalling the gay music and laughter that had filled the house a few hours back.

The butler was yawning in the hall, but did not appear at all surprised to see her. He was getting too much accustomed to the caprices and vagaries of fine ladies to be surprised at anything now.

“Lady Lenox was at breakfast,” he said, “and Miss Wyndham and three gentlemen were there; but he fancied Lady Teignmouth had gone to her room. However, he would inquire directly, if Lady Gwendolyn would step into the drawing-room for a moment.”

“Thank you, I need not trouble you,” her ladyship replied. “I know Lady Teignmouth’s room, and will go and see for myself.”

“Shall I tell Lady Lenox you are here, my lady?”

“It is not worth while, as I shall only stay a few minutes.”

And, hearing the breakfast-room door open, Lady Gwendolyn fled precipitately. The thing she could have least borne at this moment was an encounter with Lady Lenox, or any of her fast friends.

Knocking at her sister-in-law’s door, she was told to enter. Lady Teignmouth was reclining on a couch, her face as white as her embroidered peignoir, and she looked startled and surprised at this sudden apparition.

“Why, I thought you had gone back to the Grange!” she said.

“I did go back,” returned the other coldly; “but I simply changed my dress, and returned on foot, as I wished to speak to you.”

Lady Teignmouth knitted her brows, and did not seem overpleased.

“I can’t imagine what you can have to say to me of so much consequence as that, Gwen. But you do take very ridiculous notions into your head at times. However, now you are here you may as well have a cup of coffee. I sent Clémentine to get me something, and”—with evident relief—“here she comes. Now make us comfortable, Clémentine; I am dreadfully hungry. I hope you have brought enough for two.”

“There is half a chicken, and some ham, my lady.”

“And I shall take nothing but a cup of coffee,” put in Lady Gwendolyn.

“Nonsense, Gwen; it’s the greatest mistake in the world not to eat. When people lose their appetites they invariably lose their looks.”

“I’ll take my chance of that,” replied Lady Gwendolyn coldly. “Do you want Clémentine?” she added, in a lower voice. “It is really necessary that I should speak to you at once.”

“What, have you got mysteries as well as Colonel Dacre?” she exclaimed, with a levity that would have displeased Lady Gwendolyn at any time, and absolutely disgusted her now. “I am very unfortunate in my friends.”

“I think you are,” replied Lady Gwendolyn, with involuntary sternness.

Lady Teignmouth looked straight at her sister-in-law, flushed slightly, and then assumed a sulky air.

“At any rate, Reggie doesn’t complain,” she said at last. “And if he is satisfied no one else has a right to interfere.”

Lady Gwendolyn sipped her coffee, and was silent, waiting for Clémentine to go. But her sister-in-law evidently made work to detain her; not, perhaps, relishing the prospect of a tête-à-tête.

However, at last she could not find any further excuse for her presence, and dismissed her. Nothing loath, Lady Gwendolyn opened her mouth to speak, then, but Pauline stopped her nervously.

“I know you are going to say something disagreeable, that will spoil my appetite; and after being up all night, I really require support. Please, therefore, let me finish my breakfast before you begin.”

“I am afraid I can’t; every moment is precious.”

“I warn you fairly, I don’t believe you. However, I suppose you must have your own way,” returned Lady Teignmouth. And reaching out her hand for a silver flask that lay on the dressing-table, she poured half its contents into her coffee-cup, and drank it off like one well accustomed to potent drafts.

Lady Gwendolyn watched her with rising horror and dismay. The other laughed defiantly, pretending to be vastly amused at the effect she saw she had created.

“I thought I should shock you,” she said; “but, really, I have such miserable nerves, I could not get on without stimulants. Now, you may talk as much as you like; only you will try and be a little more interesting, won’t you? You have no idea how prosy you have grown of late.”

“I am afraid you will think me worse than prosy before I have done, Pauline; but I cannot compromise with my conscience. You must know the exact truth——”

“I hate truths,” interrupted Lady Teignmouth petulantly.

“I dare say; nevertheless, you must listen to me. You are my brother’s wife, and for his sake I will spare you if I can. But you must leave Bridgton directly; do you hear?”

“Yes, I hear,” replied Pauline obstinately; “but I have no intention of obeying.”

“Not if your safety depends upon it?”

“I don’t know what you mean. I am quite safe here.”

“Yon know better, Pauline.”

“Indeed I do not. I was never good at guessing riddles.”

“Listen to me! You must and shall go at once. I am no hypocrite, and, therefore, I do not pretend to care much what becomes of you personally; but I love my brother with all my heart, and would not have a shadow of dishonor to fall on his name.”

“He knew perfectly well that I was coming to Bridgton,” answered Lady Teignmouth, in a sulky, aggrieved tone.

“Possibly; but he did not know whom you had come to meet.”

“One can’t help people following. I don’t suppose you invited Colonel Dacre to Turoy; but he is there.”

“That is quite a different thing. I am not a married woman, neither have I given Colonel Dacre secret meetings in the wood. I did not come here to accuse, but to warn you, Pauline. You must leave the neighborhood at once, for Mr. Belmont is dead.”

Lady Teignmouth uttered a faint cry, and put out her hand for the flask mechanically; but Lady Gwendolyn took possession of it, adding resolutely:

“You shall not stupefy yourself, for you will want all your wits. An inquest will be held on the body at about two o’clock, and you know best what may come out. I shall be silent, for my poor brother’s sake; but others who have not the same motive for shielding you that I have, may have seen something, and be quite willing to give all the information they can. You are safe, so far as Colonel Dacre is concerned; for, though he knows all, you have managed things so cleverly that he thinks I am the wrong-doer.”

Something very like a smile moved Lady Teignmouth’s pale lips. Even at this supreme moment she could enjoy the triumph of having hoodwinked and deceived a man of the world like Colonel Dacre.

If she had injured her sister-in-law at the same time, and destroyed all her hopes in life, what did it matter so long as she herself escaped? It was a principle with Pauline never to trouble herself about other people’s affairs, and to shift her own burden off her own shoulders to somebody else’s whenever she could.

“If that is the case, I see no reason why I should disturb myself in any way. The affair is sure to blow over comfortably if we keep quiet; and, of course, you won’t say anything, for Reggie’s sake.”

The tranquil egotism of this speech roused Lady Gwendolyn at last, and she turned upon her angrily.

“You are right—it is Reggie, and Reggie only, I consider in this matter. You have spoiled his life, poor fellow! but you shall not drag his honor through the mire if I can help it.”

“You rave like a tragedy queen,” observed Lady Teignmouth insolently. “Dragging your husband’s honor through the mire is only done now on the stage.”

“I find, to my sorrow, that it is still possible in real life,” replied Lady Gwendolyn, with a strong effort at self-control.

“Because you are romantic, my dear. When once you get married you will look at things in a more matter-of-fact light. Reggie and I are tied to each other, but neither of us has a mind to make our chains too heavy. He goes his way, and I go mine. I do not call him to account for anything he may have done during our separation, and claim a like indulgence from him. I should not in the least object to his having a little flirtation, if it amused him; and I don’t really believe that he wishes to deprive me of a similar distraction.”

“And you call that a flirtation?” exclaimed Lady Gwendolyn indignantly.

“Certainly. The moment I found Mr. Belmont was taking me too much au sérieux, I told him I would have nothing more to say to him. Even if he had not died so suddenly, I should never have spoken to him again.”

“I see; he was becoming a nuisance, and you decided to get rid of him by fair means or foul.”

“What on earth do you mean? Of course, if I declined his further acquaintance, he had no alternative but to accept his dismissal.”

“It is no use talking to me in this way. I know all,” answered Lady Gwendolyn gloomily. “Mr. Belmont confessed the truth with almost his last breath.”

“What truth? I wish you would not be so enigmatical, Gwen. When I can’t understand people directly they always bore me.”

“Very well, since you will have it, he said he had been poisoned.”

“Poisoned!” echoed Lady Teignmouth, in a tone of incredulity that was unmistakably genuine. “I don’t believe it! He was with me for nearly an hour, and though he threatened all sorts of foolish things—as men do under those circumstances—I am sure he never dreamed of carrying them out.”

“Pauline!” cried her sister-in-law, “will you swear that you had no hand in Mr. Belmont’s death?”

“I? Why, really, Gwen, you must be mad!” And Lady Teignmouth looked at her anxiously. “How could I possibly have had anything to do with it?”

“He was in your way,” said Lady Gwendolyn, so much impressed by the other’s manner, that she actually began to believe in her innocence.

“Not at all. I never allow any one to be in my way. If he and I had both lived to be a hundred years old, I should not have spoken to him again.”

“But he might have spoken to you.”

“I don’t think he would, for, with all his faults, he was a gentleman. You may depend upon it,” she added argumentatively, “that he died of heart-disease. Those strong-looking men often have some secret malady that carries them off suddenly.”

“But I told you that he said he had been poisoned—and a dying man does not lie.”

“Really, I hardly know how to believe it.” And Lady Teignmouth looked her companion steadily in the eyes.

There was a minute’s silence, and then she added quietly:

“Do you think that Colonel Dacre killed him?”

“What motive could he have for even wishing him dead?” inquired Lady Gwendolyn, flushing.

“According to your own showing he took him for a rival.”

“I never said that.”

“Well, he fancied it was you who had met him in the wood; and that would naturally anger him, since he loves you himself.”

“Has he told you so, pray?”

“Not in so many words; but I have been aware of the fact for over a year now.”

“And, therefore, you gave him my address at Turoy?”

Lady Teignmouth colored.

“Why not?” she asked evasively. “Colonel Dacre would be an excellent match. He is heir presumptive to a baronetcy; and has now a fine place and ten thousand a year. You might go farther and fare worse.”

“Still, there might have been drawbacks of which you knew nothing. Even if I had been engaged to Mr. Belmont, Colonel Dacre would have had no right to resent it.”

“You had refused him, then?” inquired the other curiously.

“Certainly not; he had never asked me.”

“Then it was your own fault.”

Lady Gwendolyn was silent. Lady Teignmouth was the last person in the world of whom she would have made a confidante.

Pauline peered into her face for a minute as if she would read her thoughts. But finding no enlightenment in the impassible face before her, she added:

“Anyhow, you will never persuade me that you might not have married Colonel Dacre had you chosen. Upon one point I claim to be infallible—I always know when a man is in love.”

“Do you, indeed? You must have studied the subject very carefully,” replied her sister-in-law.

“I don’t see how one is to help it, if one is tolerably good-looking. Men are so troublesome, you know.”

“Do you think so? I never knew one yet who would not take a ‘No.’”

“Really!” And the countess smiled deceitfully. “I suppose I wasn’t sufficiently firm; for no man ever took my ‘No.’ I refused Reggie four times.”

“Nonsense!” exclaimed Gwendolyn indignantly. “My brother was not the kind of man to repeat an offer, if it had been once refused. However,” she added, cooling down suddenly, “I did not come to discuss such questions with you. Mr. Belmont has not died a natural death, I am afraid; and at the inquest everything must come out. Forewarned is forearmed, and you can do as you think proper now.”

“And I think proper to stay quietly where I am,” returned Pauline coolly. “No one can do me any harm, excepting you; and though I am quite aware that you would not spare me for my own sake, I hardly think you will try to break your brother’s heart. With all my faults, he is foolish enough to care for me a little still; but he cares for his honor still more; and if the least shadow were cast upon that, the consequences would be terrible.”

“And do you suppose nobody witnessed your meetings with Mr. Belmont?”

“I naturally took care about that.”

“In fact, you made use of the Grange, and of my servants, in order to cover your faults, counting upon the very mistake that Colonel Dacre made.”

“Exactly. Why not? Nothing of this sort could harm you, as you were not a married woman; and, so far as your servants were concerned, I merely told them that you would arrive home so tired you would not care to see any one; and they immediately inferred from this that your visitor was in some way objectionable. I told Hannah to say ‘Not at home,’ which would have simplified the matter, and saved a good deal of breath; but she assured me neither she nor her husband would tell a lie, and they should know what to say quite well if I left them alone.”

“But I was not in the house, surely, when Colonel Dacre called?”

“The first time——”

“Then he came twice?” interrupted her sister-in-law.

“Or even three times; he was so very determined to see you, and so fully persuaded that you were deceiving him.”

Lady Gwendolyn lowered her head thoughtfully. All these complications harassed her. She began to wonder if Colonel Dacre had carried his determined spirit so far as to rid himself of a supposed rival. And yet his horror and indignation when he accused her had seemed so natural she hardly knew how to distrust him. Anyhow, better it should be him than Pauline—since Pauline’s destinies were bound up in those of her brother—and she loved Reggie so dearly.

She looked up presently and said:

“I am sorry I did not see him, it might have been better for us all. But it is no use talking of ‘might have beens!’—my chief concern is the present. I wish you would leave Bridgton, Pauline. You know perfectly well that if you are identified as the lady Mr. Belmont met in the wood, Reggie will never forgive you.”

“I wish you would give me credit for a little common sense, Gwendolyn. I don’t mean to be identified as any lady in particular. Not a soul knew that I was at Turoy excepting Hannah and her husband, and I have bought their silence. Moreover, they are fully convinced that I left Turoy exactly two hours before I really did. You see, you may always trust me to guard poor Teignmouth’s honor. I was obliged to see Mr. Belmont; but I took care to manage the affair in a way that would compromise me as little as possible.”

“I think you might have told me what use you were going to make of my house, Pauline.”

“That would have been very wise, wouldn’t it? since you would have taken good care that our meeting did not come off.”

“All the better.”

“Allow me to tell you, Gwen, that with all your cleverness, there are some things you do not at all understand.”

“You are perfectly right, and I have reason to be thankful that it is so,” retorted Lady Gwendolyn, as she finished her coffee and rose to her feet. “Anyhow, you know the truth now, Pauline; and let me tell you this much before I go: I will hide your faults and follies this once, at any sacrifice, for my brother’s sake; but the next time such a thing happens you must take your chance. It is enough that I have lost the respect of a man whose good opinion is worth having, for you. I will not aid you further. If you have not profited by the terrible lesson you have received, the sooner you and Reggie separate the better for him; and I shall do nothing to hinder it.”

“You cross, disagreeable child!” exclaimed her ladyship cheerfully. “You don’t suppose I shall get into another scrape in a hurry, do you?”

“I don’t know. You have such terrible vanity, Pauline——”

“Did you ever know a woman yet who had not? I really like Reggie immensely, but he has entirely got out of the way of paying compliments, and making himself agreeable; and, really, it is quite necessary to go into the world to hear that one is pretty. Before I have been shut up three days with my husband at Teignmouth I feel like an unmitigated fright.”

“Would you have him always flattering you?”

“Well, no, not exactly, because I should want a little sleep. Still, it is the sort of thing one cannot easily have too much of.”

Lady Gwendolyn looked at her with ill-concealed contempt; and, feeling that she might lose her temper and say more than she ought to say if she remained any longer, she wished her a curt good morning, and left the room.

She went down-stairs as softly as she could, being anxious, above all things, to escape the attention of Lady Lenox and her guests; but, as luck would have it, just as she reached the bottom of the stairs, the door of the breakfast-room suddenly opened, and she found herself face to face with the gay Irish widow, Mrs. O’Hara.

CHAPTER VIII.

PAULINE’S TRIUMPH.

Mrs. O’Hara was about the last person Lady Gwendolyn would have cared to meet; moreover, she knew her to be a frivolous, pleasure-seeking woman, whose influence would be very bad for Lady Teignmouth.

Hitherto Pauline had professed to dislike the Irish widow, but finding themselves together in a country house, they were sure to do one of two things, either quarrel desperately, or strike up a violent friendship. And Gwendolyn, who had her brother’s honor and happiness so much at heart, knew that this latter would be fatal, indeed.

She stepped back and bowed coldly, but Mrs. O’Hara was not to be repressed. She held out her hand with great cordiality.

“I am so delighted to meet you again, dear Lady Gwendolyn. I hear you were quite the belle of last night’s ball. I meant to be here myself, but I provokingly missed the train at Carlisle, and had to wait there six hours, so that I am just a day after the fair. I find that Lady Teignmouth is staying here,” she added, without giving herself time to take breath, “and I am so delighted! George Belmont always praises her so much, I am quite anxious to improve our acquaintance.”

Lady Gwendolyn shivered convulsively.

“Mr. Belmont is a friend of yours, then?” she asked faintly.

“He is only my brother, but we are excellent friends, which is rather rare among near relatives. He has just come into a nice little property in Ireland, and I hope he will take a wife and settle down. I don’t mind telling you, he has knocked about the world a good deal in his time, and the money was very acceptable; and, what do you think?” she went on impulsively; “directly he heard of his uncle’s death, he promised to settle a little matter that he knew was bothering me a good deal.”

Lady Gwendolyn had not much sympathy, as a rule, with people who confided in the first comer; still, she could not help feeling for Mrs. O’Hara at this moment, and sympathizing with the tears of grateful feeling in her big black eyes.

Mr. Belmont might not be a very estimable man, but he had been kind to his sister, evidently; and she must needs grieve for him indeed when she learned the manner of his death, which would be worse to bear than the death itself.

She had half a mind to give her a hint that would prepare her for what was coming, and was trying to pick out words that would be a warning and not a revelation, when Mrs. O’Hara caught sight of a masculine figure at the end of the hall, and darted off precipitately. Her bold laugh followed Lady Gwendolyn into the garden and sharpened her mood. Somehow, she thought now that Mrs. O’Hara would get over her trouble very easily, and only hoped it would take her away from Bridgton Hall before she had had time to do any mischief.

She felt so weary and sick at heart she could have sat down in the hedge and let all the winds of heaven beat upon her, if she could only feel sure that they would beat this miserable life out of her, and give her rest.

“For the world is such a cruel, unsatisfactory place,” she said to herself, in the impatience of a first grief. “To live is to suffer, and, therefore, it were better to die.”

No doubt if she had felt the chill hand grasping her, she would have urged a very different prayer; but Gwendolyn had never known sorrow before, and the pressure of the wound irritated her. She would have given up all the promise of the future to be rid of her present pain.

Meanwhile, Lady Teignmouth rang for her maid.

“Do you know where the post-office at Bridgton is?” she asked.

Clémentine could not say that she did.

“Anyhow, it will be easy enough to find out,” continued her mistress. “Put on your bonnet as quickly as possible, Clémentine, and take this telegram there. You can write English well now, but must be careful that your letters are clear and distinct.”

“And am I to wait for an answer,” inquired the French woman naïvely.

“Certainly not. But read the message over to me, that I may be sure you understand it.”

Clémentine began in a singsong voice:

“You are wanted here on urgent business. Come directly you receive my telegram.”

“That will do. Mind your spelling,” was her ladyship’s comment. “Now you can go.”

Lord Teignmouth was breakfasting at his club in luxurious bachelor ease when his wife’s message reached him, and he uttered an exclamation of annoyance and surprise.

“How confoundedly unfortunate! And I dare say it is only some fad of Pauline’s, after all. She likes to have men running after her. I think I’ll telegraph back that I am particularly engaged, and can’t leave town.”

Then he suddenly recollected that with all Lady Teignmouth’s caprices, she had never sent for him in this way before, and he at once decided to go. He telegraphed back to this effect, then finished his breakfast as quickly as he could, and in less than an hour was on his way to Bridgton.

Pauline had calculated about the time he would reach the station, and had gone there to meet him, like a dutiful and affectionate wife.

“Dear Reggie, how very kind of you!” she exclaimed, her face in a glitter of smiles. “I never expected you at all.”

“Then you did not come to meet me, Pauline?”

“Of course I did, you foolish fellow! The mere chance that you would come was enough to rouse my wifely zeal. Do you know why I wanted you?” she added, as she took his arm, and led him out of the station into the quiet lanes.

“I haven’t the faintest idea.”

“No? Then I will tell you. I want you to take me away from Bridgton immediately.”

“But, my dear Pauline, you came here without me, and could, therefore, leave here without me, surely.”

“You don’t evidently know Lady Lenox. She has made up her party, and won’t hear of any one deserting, as she calls it. I talked till I was tired, and then it suddenly struck me to telegraph for you, and make believe you had come on purpose to fetch me.”

“But how is it you are tired of Bridgton already?”

“I don’t like to tell you, Reggie. You know how I hate to give anybody pain.”

“Pshaw!” he said, coloring a little. “Make a clean breast of it while you are about it. Have you and Lady Lenox quarreled?”

“Certainly not.”

“Then you have had disagreeables with one of the visitors.”

“No; everybody had been charming, and shown me so much kindness and sympathy in my trouble.”

“What trouble? I do wish you would not try to mystify me, Pauline. You know I was never good at riddles. I suppose your pug is dead, or you have found your first gray hair——”

“Oh, Reggie! don’t talk like that; you make me feel dreadfully,” she interrupted. “I may have seemed frivolous when all things went well; but I assure you I can suffer with you, and for you now.”

He dropped her arm, and turned, and stared at her.

“What do you mean?”

“Would you rather I told you the truth, Reggie?”

“That is what I have been begging you to do for the last half-hour,” he answered impatiently. “But you seem to enjoy piling up the agony. I suppose the long and short of it is that Gwen is dangerously ill.”

“She was perfectly well three or four hours ago. No; it is not that sort of trouble. Reggie. Gwen has disgraced us cruelly.”

Lord Teignmouth started violently, and his face grew white to the lips.

“I will not believe it,” he said. “You never liked her, Pauline, and are exaggerating a small imprudence into a crime. I am sure she would be able to clear herself at once, if she knew of what she was accused.”

“Then give her the chance,” answered his wife coldly.

And she told him the miserable story of Mr. Belmont’s death, unfalteringly asseverating that the unfortunate man had come to Turoy on Lady Gwendolyn’s account.

“They had a meeting in the wood the very night of his death, as some of the people hereabout can testify; and, of course, his sudden and mysterious fate has caused a great sensation. No one could suspect Gwendolyn of anything but an imprudence, as you say; but it’s the sort of imprudence that ruins a woman’s reputation, I am afraid. My own opinion is that Colonel Dacre followed Mr. Belmont to Turoy, and, finding him to be a successful rival, determined to get him out of the way. But this is pure conjecture, and nothing of the sort came out at the inquest.”

“Then there has been an inquest?” inquired Lord Teignmouth, who felt as if the ground were giving way beneath his feet.

“Oh, yes! and Gwendolyn gave her evidence with great dignity and propriety—she was sure to do that, you know. The inquest took place at four o’clock, having been delayed by the post-mortem examination, and it was proved that the unfortunate man died of poison, but by whom administered there was no evidence to show, and they gave an open verdict.”

Lord Teignmouth put his hand confusedly to his head. He was a man of sensitive honor, and the thought that his high-bred, beautiful sister had been mixed up in a painful story, that would soon be telegraphed from one end of England to the other, made him furious. Moreover, Mr. Belmont had always been looked upon as an adventurer, and careful people hardly cared to have him at their parties. Mrs. O’Hara herself had never acknowledged the relationship between them until her brother had come into a fortune, when he would have been useful, no doubt.

He turned to his wife, and spoke with angry decision:

“You did quite right to send for me. I would not have you remain in this neighborhood another day on any account. I shall go and see Gwendolyn, and tell her that my house is shut to her for the future, and she must make a home elsewhere. The only thing would be for her to marry, if she could find any idiot to take her. Anyhow, I am not going to have her name mixed up with yours. Thank Heaven she is my sister, and not my wife!”

“Thank Heaven, indeed!” she murmured, resting her dimpled chin on his shoulder, with a movement full of the most seductive grace. “But you know that, with all my faults, Reggie, I am not capable of that?”

“I begin to suspect all women,” he said gloomily. “Gwen and I were everything to each other in the days gone by, and I thought her so innocent and upright. If any one had dared to tell me she was carrying on a secret intrigue I would have knocked him down if he had been a man, so sure should I have felt that he lied miserably. But I suppose there is no doubting the fact now.”

Lady Teignmouth shook her head.

“Lady Gwendolyn denied it, of course; she was almost justified in trying to save her reputation by a falsehood, it seems to me.”

“There should have been no need for the falsehood,” responded Lord Teignmouth sternly.

“Yes, but if we all did exactly what was right, dear, what a delightful world this would be,” said the countess, with the sweetest indulgence. “I always feel myself that having so many failings of my own I ought to make allowances for others. Gwen is but young yet, and was led away. I have heard of Mr. Belmont as a man of extraordinary fascination.”

“What, then? Gwendolyn was not a raw schoolgirl, to be subjugated by the first handsome mustache she saw.”

“Oh, no; but, no doubt, poor darling, she became attached to Mr. Belmont. Indeed, I have felt sure for the last year that she had something on her mind, and I have tried to persuade her to confide in me, but she always repelled me. I wish she had, now, for, as a sensible girl, she would have given up Mr. Belmont at once if she had known how thoroughly worthless he was.”

“I don’t see any sign of her sense in this miserable business,” replied Lord Teignmouth, who looked harassed and dejected. “But we had better get on, Pauline; there are your things to pack, and I know of old what a long process that is.”

“Everything is packed,” replied his wife. “I felt sure you would take me away, and so I made my preparations accordingly. And, do you know, if we miss the eight-o’clock train it will be impossible for us to get away to-night?”

“Then we will stay at an inn, Pauline. I am determined you shall not be exposed to any unpleasant remarks at Lady Lenox’s. Moreover, I want to get to the other side of the Channel as quickly as possible, and hide my diminished head.”

“Look here, Reggie, dear,” she said, as if the idea had only just occurred to her; “supposing you write to Gwendolyn.”

“I would rather tell her my mind.”

“Nonsense!” she answered coaxingly; “it would be so much better to do as I say. You are both quick-tempered, and will make a scene between you, and, surely, there will be nothing gained by that. Come, Reggie, do listen to reason. It would distress you, I am sure, to accuse Gwendolyn to her face, and yet, of course, she must know the truth. Write her a decided letter, and as you will be leaving England at once, she will not be able to answer it, and then you will be spared all annoyance.”

“I would rather see her,” persisted Lord Teignmouth.

“What could you say to her if you did? She is perfectly independent, and has a right to meet twenty men in Turoy wood, if she likes.”

“And kill them afterward, I suppose?”

“Oh! do hush, Reggie; it is dreadfully imprudent to talk in this way out of doors, where you might be overheard.”

“What does that matter? Do you suppose we shall be able to hide our troubles from the world?”

“Impossible, of course; but it is no use precipitating matters. We shall have a few hours’ start of scandal if we keep quiet, and I do want to be the other side of the Channel when the morning papers begin to circulate.”

“It will be of no use, Pauline,” he answered, more gently than he had yet spoken to her. “Wherever we go they will follow and dodge us, and we shall be sure to meet heaps of people who will think it kind to condole with us. I am afraid I shall behave like a bear if they do.”

“Then let us return to Teignmouth, dear.”

“It would be still worse there. We should have to receive our neighbors as usual if they called, and they all know Gwendolyn so well.”

“Only that friends would naturally be more considerate than mere acquaintances.”

“Surely, you would rather go abroad, Pauline,” he said, looking at her with some surprise.

“Infinitely, Reggie; but I wished to do what would comfort you most. Only that I want you, as a special favor, to promise that you will make no effort to see Gwendolyn.”

“Why?”

“Because you are both proud and passionate, and may speak words in the heat of argument that will make it impossible you should ever be friends again; and I do not see why you should not forgive Gwendolyn later, supposing she made a decent marriage, and showed by her conduct that she really regretted the past.”

“You forget, Pauline, that some people will always believe that she killed Belmont to hide her indiscretion.”

“Oh! no, dear, you torture yourself unnecessarily. I am sure nobody will ever believe that; it is so obviously the deed of a rival!”

“And Lawrence Dacre is here, you say?”

“Yes; he arrived the same night that Gwendolyn did, and put up at the village inn.”

“My sister, and my friend—two out of the three people I loved best in the world,” he murmured. “And my wife may be as false as they, for all I know! It is enough to make me wish I had never been born!”

Pauline caught the muttered words, and pressed closer against his arm, her face uplifted to his.

“You must not suspect me, Reggie; I will not have it! I have been a careless wife, I am afraid, because—because,” very softly, “I thought you cared for Gwendolyn more than you cared for me, and that discouraged me; but she cannot come between us now, and I mean to make you so happy! Will you try and forget all these miseries, for my sake?”

All men are weak when they get into the hands of a clever, unscrupulous woman; and Reginald St. Maur was so loyal, that his wife must needs have a very tender hold upon his affections, if only because she was his wife, and he had wooed and won her in his youth. It is true that a coldness had grown up between them of late years; but he had always been ready to welcome her back into his heart, and now that Gwendolyn had failed him so cruelly, Pauline was his one last hope.

He drew her to him, and kissed her thrice on the lips.

“Try and make me forget,” he said, “and I will bless you all my life.”

“Will you leave everything to me?” she asked, as she rested her still beautiful face on his shoulder and smiled up into his eyes.

“Gladly—thankfully, my love.”

“Very well, then, come into my room and write to Gwendolyn, while I bid Lady Lenox adieu, and make the last arrangements for our journey. I only want to save you pain, my dearest; and, indeed—indeed, it is best.”

He followed her passively into the house, and up-stairs. Gently coercing him into a chair, she brought writing materials, placed a pen between his fingers, and then, stooping forward, whispered between two kisses:

“Do your duty, but do it gently; for whatever her blame may be, you are the children of one mother, and were all in all to each other once.”

“Thank you for the reminder,” he answered gravely; and then she rustled away, and left him to his painful task.

When she returned, half an hour later, the letter lay on the desk ready to go, and, as if she feared he might draw back even yet, she caught it up and rang at once for Clémentine.

“Put that carefully in the letter-bag,” she said, when the woman answered the summons; “and then come and put on my cloak.”

“Must I see Lady Lenox?” her husband asked, when they were alone once more.

“You need not; she quite understands and sympathizes with you. They are just going to sit down to dinner, and we shall go away quietly and comfortably, and catch the eight-o’clock train. You see, dearest, I am not altogether incapable if I am left to myself.”

“I never thought you were, my love,” he answered; and paid her such a pretty conjugal compliment that Pauline began to think husbands were not such disagreeable creatures, after all, if properly managed.

Lady Gwendolyn had passed a miserable night, only to close her eyes to dream of the inquest, and suffer over again the humiliation of feeling herself suspected, not of actual murder, perhaps, but of having contributed in some way to the wretched man’s doom. Through Colonel Dacre’s stern gravity she had read the same cruel misconstruction, and yet he was so reticent, so careful not to compromise her in any way, she almost felt, too, as if he were a friend.

Anyhow, the reminiscent torture made her start up in her bed, again and again calling out that she could not bear it; and she was glad when old Hannah came in to prepare her bath. She was so perfectly unsuspecting that when she found a letter on her breakfast-table later, and recognized Lord Teignmouth’s handwriting, she opened it eagerly, feeling as if it were a bright spot in her gloom.

But as she read, the color faded out of her face, and a startled, anguished look came into her eyes.

“Even he forsakes me,” she murmured, in a stifled voice; and, sinking down beside the couch, she buried her face in her hands and wept violently, passionately, until the very strength of her emotion exhausted her, and she lay still, wondering in her infinite desolation what she had ever done that fate should be so hard upon her.

The answer came at last:

“You set up an idol and worshiped it; and in fleeing from temptation a worse chance has overtaken you. Pray, unhappy woman; it is your only hope. The whole world has forsaken you, even your own kin; and, above all, the woman whom you served yesterday by your silence, and whose blame you bore for your brother’s sake. You have no kindred, or friends; you stand alone; and, therefore, need to stand firm, with your head well raised; but how will you bear this terrible solitude for all your pride?”

There was no answer to this question, unless she heard it in the storm—voices that went moaning round the house. A sudden peal of thunder shook the roof; the rain came plashing down; and Gwendolyn, poor coward! hid her face again, and stopped her ears.

She did not, therefore, either see or hear any one approach, until a warm, strong hand touched hers diffidently; and she lifted her head to let these tender words thrill through and through her:

“My darling! love has become my master; and I cannot live without you, as I told you before, so I have come to claim you for my very own!”

CHAPTER IX.

ALL FOR LOVE.

Lady Gwendolyn was too much overcome at this sudden apparition. She could not speak for a moment; and, taking her silence for encouragement, Lawrence Dacre knelt down beside her, and lifted the hand he still held to his lips.

“I have done with resistance,” he said; his eyes full of gloomy passion. “Whether you take me, or leave me, Gwendolyn, I belong to you—and you only now. These last few days I have done nothing but fight and struggle, until all the flesh has worn off my bones,” he added, with a grim laugh; “and I’ll make an end of it somehow. Do you hear me, child?”

“Yes, yes; go on,” she answered, scarcely knowing what she said.

“What more can I tell you? I should scare you, perhaps, if I let you see all the wild, burning passion in my heart, for your love compared to mine is

‘As moonlight unto sunlight,

And as water unto wine.’

But I will teach you better when you belong to me. I could not be satisfied with the lukewarm affections that most women are ready to bestow on any man who has proper notions with regard to settlements. I must find some expanse in my wife’s heart to the jealous, exclusive passion in my own, otherwise there would be no use in living, that I can see. I never cared much about the world, and am ready to relinquish all its so-called pleasures if you bid me; but, then, I must have the return my soul craves—something more precious to me than a crown and kingdom—your undivided love.”

His mellow voice made such pleasant music at her ear, that Lady Gwendolyn had made no effort to rouse herself so far; but when he ceased to speak, she lifted her haggard, tear-stained face, and said, with somber resignation:

“What is the use of picturing impossibilities? You know I could not marry you if I would.”

“Why not?”

“You forget that I know your secret.”

“Now, you must explain what you mean by my secret, Gwendolyn,” he said, with decision, as he lifted her on to the couch, and sat down beside her. “Twice you have thrown it in my teeth, and though I have tried hard to find out what you meant, I have been unable to do so. On my honor as a gentleman, I know nothing that need prevent our marriage.”

His arm was stealing round her waist, but she pushed it away, and faced him with a regal air.

“Listen to me, Colonel Dacre!” she said impressively. “It is true that I was only twenty the other day, but I have seen a good deal of the world, and am not easily deceived. From the first moment that you and I met, I knew that you had something on your mind.”

“Few men reach my age without finding that they have a good deal to remember and forget. In my hot youth I committed plenty of follies, I dare say; but I can safely swear that I never really loved a woman until I saw you.”

“And never deceived one, Colonel Dacre?”

“Never—as I hope for heaven!”

“Oh, hush!—hush!” she exclaimed, her eyes flashing. “You are deceiving me now.”

“Upon my word, Gwendolyn, I have not even prevaricated. Let me know of what I am accused, that I may defend myself; it is not fair to insinuate things of such moment to me without making it possible for me to explain.”

“Very well,” she said; “you shall hear my story from the beginning. You remember the day that I was frightened by Bates’ bull?”

“Certainly I do.”

“Well, I did not sprain my ankle.”

“I guessed as much,” he answered coolly.

“But I was anxious to find or make some excuse for getting into Borton Hall.”

“May I ask why?”

“We were coming to that. The evening before we were speaking, if you remember, of most people having a skeleton or two in their cupboard, and you suddenly turned very grave. When I laughed, and said that you looked as if you had a dozen, at least, in yours, you answered, with deep meaning, that one might be as much as any one could bear. You were very silent for the rest of the evening, and I was puzzled, stimulated, pained, all together.”

“What, then?” he urged, as she came to an abrupt pause.

“I took care to sprain my ankle in flying from Bates’ bull.”

“Then you were not frightened by the animal?”

“I did not particularly like the look of him, but I should have passed him valiantly enough if I had not seen you coming.”

“Well?”

“You carried me into your house, and laid me on a couch, while you went for assistance. I had almost a mind to laugh in your face when you bent over me so anxiously at parting, and made me promise to ring for your housekeeper, supposing the pain should increase.”

“You played your part splendidly, I must own.”

“Of course! for I had a good deal at stake. It was necessary for my peace of mind to discover the skeleton in your cupboard.”

“And you succeeded?” he inquired, with suppressed eagerness; his lips whitening as the words passed through them.

“Yes, I did. With all my faults, I would never have searched your place, of that you may be sure; but there was no need, the revelation I sought was thrust upon me.”

“Ah!”

And though there was the gloom of an abiding sorrow in his eyes, there was no shame nor shrinking—excepting so far as we all shrink when a deep wound is probed.

“I suppose it was the intervention of Providence,” Lady Gwendolyn went on. “If you had asked me to marry you an hour before I should have accepted you without hesitation, whereas, it was not even right for us to be friends.”

“You forget that you have explained nothing yet,” he said hoarsely. “And yet, this suspense is very cruel.”

“I do not mean to be cruel,” she said. “I can assure you I have suffered too much myself to take pleasure in another person’s pain; but I am reluctant to recall that most miserable half-hour I passed at Borton Hall. I entered it so full of hope; I left it feeling as if I had nothing to look forward to in the world, since you, whom I had trusted and loved, were false.”

“Or, rather, you fancied so.”

“It was no fancy, unfortunately. I saw and spoke to your wife.”

“Saw and spoke to my wife?” he repeated. “My dear Gwendolyn, you are certainly dreaming. I have no wife.”

“She told me that her husband refused to acknowledge her, and that, having no one to befriend her, she could not assert her rights,” pursued Lady Gwendolyn, without heeding his denial. “And, poor thing! she quite wrung my heart, she looked so dejected and hopeless.”

“But not through any fault of mine.”

“Why do you try to deceive me, Colonel Dacre? When a man has committed such a wrong as you have done, the only atonement he can make is a full confession. Treat me frankly now, and I will forgive you everything.”

“Forgive everything! What do you mean, Gwendolyn? I want your love, not your forgiveness. I do not deserve the former, I am aware; but I have certainly done nothing to make it necessary for me to claim the latter.”

“Perhaps you look upon bigamy as a very small offense.”

“But I have never committed bigamy, Gwendolyn. Indeed, until I saw you I never wanted even to commit matrimony.”

“Then who was it I saw in your house?”

“I have a crazy protégée in the village, whom I allow to wander about the park, as she is perfectly harmless. She has very strange delusions, and may have taken it into her head that she is married to me, and I am trying to keep her out of her rights. Who shall answer for the hallucinations of a disordered brain?”

“The person I saw was a lady,” said Lady Gwendolyn. “That is a point upon which it was impossible for me to be deceived, of course. She was unusually delicate and refined looking, and her accent was perfect. Your protégée in the village could never have managed to play the lady so well.”

“I don’t know about that. Mad people are very cunning and imitative.”

“Still, they cannot perform impossibilities. Let her imitation have been ever so good, she must have betrayed herself in some way.”

“If you had suspected her, you would have perceived certain deficiencies that passed unnoticed under the circumstances.”

“Impossible. I knew nothing whatever about her, and was ready to believe anything. The impression she made on me was, as I said before, of an extremely refined, lady-like person, and I have no doubt in my own mind that she was a gentlewoman, and your wife.”

“She may have been a gentlewoman, but she was certainly not my wife,” replied the colonel.

“Will you swear that?”

“I will swear by my mother’s memory—which I love and revere—that I never had a wife.”

“Will you swear also that you do not know the lady I have been describing?”

“No; for I did not see her.”

“But you know whom I mean?” persisted Lady Gwendolyn.

“I know nothing,” was the evasive reply. “I was not present at your interview, and had no reason to suppose there was any one in the house who would dare to make such a charge against me. As I said before, I do not pretend to be a saint, but I have never wronged or deceived a living woman.”

“I wish I could believe you,” she said, almost convinced in spite of herself, there was something so trustworthy about him. “I want a friend and protector badly enough, for my brother has deserted me.”

“What, Teignmouth!” exclaimed her companion incredulously.

“Yes; he thinks I have disgraced him, and the name I bear, and does not care for me to be associated any longer with his innocent, pure-minded wife, lest I should contaminate her.”

Lady Gwendolyn would have been less than a woman if she had not allowed her sneer to be perceptible—for she owed all her misery and humiliation to Pauline; and to know that she had managed to exalt herself in Lord Teignmouth’s eyes at the expense of his sister, did not give her a very Christianlike feeling toward the clever countess, assuredly. But, having relieved herself by this little piece of spite, Gwendolyn melted into tears again, and was so agitated she did not notice the arm that was stealing round her waist so gently.

Nor did she resist when presently, grown bold by impunity, Colonel Dacre drew her head down on to his breast and murmured:

“If you must weep, darling, you shall weep here. I hold you fast now, and will not be denied. Cannot you trust me a little?”

She shook her head drearily.

“I am afraid I could not. I should always feel as if there were some mystery between us—and that would spoil all my happiness. Besides, you do not respect me, Lawrence; you told me so frankly two years ago. What kind of marriage could ours be, distrusting each other mutually, as we should do?”

“I should never mistrust my wife.”

“Not during the honeymoon, perhaps; but afterward, when you could reason coolly again, would you not remember the past, and be inclined to throw it in my teeth?”

“You do not give me credit for much generosity, Gwendolyn.”

“I think you are a man,” she said.

“And all men are scoundrels, I suppose?”

“No; but they are sensitive on certain points. You may not be a Cæsar, but I fancy you would not care to have your wife suspected, for all that?”

“I do not see why you should be suspected.”

“It is a cruel world, remember. When people saw me pass on your arm, the women would say: ‘Poor fellow! he married Lady Gwendolyn St. Maur out of pity, because nobody would have anything to say to her after that wretched affair at Turoy. I wonder if she really did poison Mr. Belmont? She looks like that sort of person, does she not?’ A few men would make excuses for me, perhaps—men do judge more mercifully than my sex; but their voices would soon be drowned by their wives’ shrill chorus of dispraise. You see, Colonel Dacre, it is better I should live and die alone.”

“On the contrary, it is better you should belong to me, as you need a defender.”

“Who excuses himself accuses himself,” she answered sadly.

“And that was why you were silent yesterday?”

“No; I had a far different reason.”

“Will you not confide in me a little?” he pleaded.

“Why should I? In the first place, you do not treat me with confidence; in the second, all I could say would never persuade you that it was not I who had meetings in Turoy Wood with Mr. Belmont.”

“I do not see who else it could have been.”

“And the lady I met at Borton Hall—who else could she have been but your wife?”

“She might have been any one.”

“So might Mr. Belmont’s friend.”

“I don’t know about that. You are the only lady in Turoy.”

“Now!” she said, with a significance that made Colonel Dacre ponder, and wonder if he had been confused like the rest of the world.

After all, he could not prove that Lady Gwendolyn had been the only person in the Grange that evening; and though the lady he had seen in the wood with Mr. Belmont resembled the other in figure and style, he remembered now that he had not seen her face, and had, therefore, no right to judge her.

How could he have been so cruel as not even to have given her the benefit of the doubt? And, after all, she might be innocent, poor darling!

He pressed her to his bosom with a passion of tenderness, as he murmured:

“Oh, my darling! You can never forgive me for having misjudged you so, and yet I loved you like a madman all the while.”

There was such a blessed rest in the love he proffered; and she yearned beyond words to gather it up to her heart. But believing him to be the husband of another woman, it was her duty to put this comfort away from her, and she dared not hesitate for conscience sake.

She withdrew one of his arms resolutely.

“You must try and get over your love,” she said, with evident effort; and the utter desolation of her face would have touched a heart of stone. “I will not take another woman’s just place.”

“Heaven forbid that I should be base enough to ask such a thing of you!”

“You are asking it now.”

“You would trust a madwoman rather than me?” he said reproachfully.

“I am afraid I must. The madwoman had nothing to gain by deceiving me, and you have.”

“You forget that what I had gained by fraud I should not be able to keep. If I were a married man there are people in the world who must know about it. It is rare that a woman is entirely without family and protectors, and can be kept out of sight without somebody requiring to know what has become of her.”

“True,” Lady Gwendolyn replied; “but one has heard of such things.”

“In novels.”

“In real life, too. One rarely takes up a newspaper without hearing of some mysterious disappearance.”

“That argument is rather in my favor than otherwise, Gwendolyn. If my wife had disappeared suddenly you would have seen something about it in the newspapers, according to your own showing, and there would have been every effort made to discover her whereabouts, or the manner of her death, if she were dead. Besides, it is only natural to suppose that in the early days I should have taken my wife to Borton, and introduced her to my neighbors. You do not marry a woman on purpose to shut her up; that would be an afterthought.”

“You could have gone abroad, and from there announced her death.”

“Possibly; but you may depend it is better to have a skeleton in your cupboard, rather than a living creature. One tells no tales, and the other might get one into some very unpleasant scrapes. Come, Gwen, do not be so unbelieving. I swear by all that is most sacred I have no wife. Even if I had wished to conceal this fact from the world in general I should certainly have confided in your brother, and you may be sure he would not have allowed me to visit at his house under false pretenses.”

“But, of course, you would not have confided in him if you had wished to keep your marriage a secret.”

“Gwendolyn,” he said passionately, “you will wear me out. If you would only trust me as I trust you. I love you so dearly, my sweetest.”

The strong arms enfolded her lovingly, the tawny mustache swept her cheek. For one brief moment she yielded to his caress, her lips thrilling under his, then she wrenched herself away from him, and fled.

CHAPTER X.

A FACE AT THE WINDOW.

Colonel Dacre waited for half an hour, hoping Lady Gwendolyn would return; but when the time passed, and there was still no sign of her, he concluded that she did not want to see him again that morning, and went back to his hotel. All day long he expected that she would send him a little note, telling him when he might call again; but his patience was not rewarded. The hours dragged wearily, but they passed, bringing the cool, sweet eventide, when the tired flowers went to sleep under their sheltering leaves, and even the busy bees were abed.

“She will send or come now,” he said to himself, believing that the lady of his love had too much independence of spirit to regard conventionalities; he sat at the open window, waiting still, and still in vain.

When the clock struck eight he decided that she intended him to seek her, and went over to the Grange. Old Hannah answered his impatient knock, and, in reply to his question, said, quietly, that Lady Gwendolyn was gone.

“Gone!” echoed Colonel Dacre. “I am sure she could not have left without my seeing her.”

“I don’t know whether you saw her or not, sir,” continued the woman, with perfect civility. “But she really is gone.”

“She did not leave any letter for me, then?”

“Not as I know, sir; but perhaps you would like to step into the drawing-room and see?”

Colonel Dacre accepted this offer eagerly.

Old Hannah stood at the door, and watched him as he turned over the books, and even looked into the vases on the mantelpiece, coming back to her, at last, with a very disappointed air.

“Perhaps Lady Gwendolyn has written by the post,” he said. “I hardly think she would have left Turoy without giving me notice.”

“Why?” said the woman calmly.

This was a straightforward question, undoubtedly, and only required a straightforward answer; but the Sphinx’s riddle could hardly have puzzled Colonel Dacre more.

He had to ponder a long time before he answered.

“Well,” he said, at last, “I have had the honor of knowing her ladyship for some time.”

“Oh!”

“And I am one of her brother’s best friends.”

“Humph!”

“And—and——”

Here he stopped short. Old Hannah’s responses were so short and unsympathetic that they checked his fluency.

“Is there anything more you want, sir?” inquired old Hannah, with exasperating tranquillity; “because, if not, me and my husband would be glad to go to bed. We aren’t accustomed to late hours, like fashionable folks.”

Colonel Dacre slipped a couple of half-crown pieces into her hand.

“Put those under your pillow, to make you sleep,” he said.

Old Hannah turned them over two or three times, and then handed them back, resolutely and reluctantly.

“I don’t care for money I haven’t earned,” she said. “When people seek to bribe you, you’re an idiot if you don’t guess what they mean. You want to know where my mistress is gone, and you fancy I can tell you; but I can’t, and, if I could, I wouldn’t. I don’t need instructing just when to hold my tongue.”

Colonel Dacre looked baffled and annoyed, although he felt that the woman was right.

“It’s a pity you make so much mystery about Lady Gwendolyn’s movements,” he said. “Secrecy always excites suspicion.”

“I have never knew the person yet who ever dared to suspect my mistress,” she answered proudly. “Anyhow, nobody can tell what they don’t know. Her ladyship left about five o’clock this evening, and it warn’t my place to ask where she was going. If it had been necessary for me to know, she would have told me, of course.”

“What orders did she give about forwarding her letters, then?”

“None, sir. My husband did venture to ask her that question, but she told him she did not expect any.”

Colonel Dacre began to understand, at last, that Lady Gwendolyn was fleeing from a temptation she could not resist, and an expression of triumph darkened his handsome eyes. When he found her he would command rather than plead, for she belonged to him by right of their mutual love.

He was so absorbed in this thought that he quite forgot where he was, until old Hannah inquired, tartly, if he was going to stay all night, when he apologized with a pleasant laugh and said, as he proffered the two half-crowns again:

“You may accept them with a clear conscience now, for you have fairly earned them. I would give twenty pounds myself gladly for an hour of good, honest, tranquil sleep, such as I have deprived you of.”

“La! sir,” said old Hannah; “then why don’t you go home and go to bed at once?”

“Because it would be of no use. I should only turn and toss about until morning.”

“How funny! I never turn until I turn out of bed. Perhaps you’ve got something on your mind, sir. There was Joshua Billing, in our village, who murdered his wife; he was that miserable he couldn’t lay of nights, and got up and hanged hisself at last, leaving a letter to say that his wife haunted him, so he couldn’t abide his life.”

“Anyhow, I haven’t murdered my wife,” said Colonel Dacre, in spite of himself. “The fact is, I haven’t a wife to murder.”

“Ah! poor gentleman, that accounts for your looking so bad!” returned Hannah, who had the fullest faith in matrimony. “My husband would be a dreadful poor creature without me.”

“I see, I must get married at once,” observed Colonel Dacre, as he stepped out into the twilight, feeling, as old Hannah expressed it, a very poor creature, indeed, without this woman who had grown to be the light and savor of his life.

He asked discreet questions at the railway station, but the one solitary porter declared that no lady had come there that day.

“In fact, sir,” he said, pocketing Colonel Dacre’s half-crown, as if such munificence staggered him, “we have no ladies, as a rule. Our station was made principally for market fellows and farmers. When we haven’t no passengers we signal, and the train doesn’t stop.”

“How often have they stopped here to-day?”

“Twice, sir.”

“And were there many passengers on these two occasions?”

“There was one lady for the twelve-o’clock express, and that was all.”

“What was this lady like?”

“Rather stout, sir. Judging by the flour on her face, I should say she was a miller’s daughter; judging by her dress, I should say she was a duchess.”

“How did she come?”

“In Lady Lenox’s wagonette.”

“Oh!” said Colonel Dacre, and took a ticket for the next station.

“It’s the late parliamentary, sir,” observed the porter; “but perhaps you don’t mind.”

“Not at all. I am not going far.”

“You’ll find Bearstead a very out-of-the-way place, sir,” pursued the porter warningly. “There’s only one hotel, and that’s not at all the style of thing for a gentleman like you.”

“You need not be anxious about me, I sha’n’t remain all night. Is that the train now?”

“Yes, sir.”

Just as it drew up along the platform, a lady in black, deeply veiled, stepped hurriedly into the station, and said something to the porter in a low voice, no doubt slipping a small coin into his hand at the same time, for he began to bestir himself at once.

Colonel Dacre was standing close to him when he labeled the lady’s boxes, and found that she was going to Preston, like himself.

As he was not in the mood for conversation, and knew no woman could possibly keep quiet for three mortal hours, he decided to get into a smoking-carriage.

He thought he had taken his precautions, and was congratulating himself upon his forethought, when the porter threw open the door of the very carriage in which he had ensconced himself, saying, civilly:

“Now, ma’am, if you please.”

“But this is a smoking-carriage, porter,” interrupted Colonel Dacre.

“All right, sir; that’s what the lady wants,” he answered, somewhat disenchanted, but still deferential, as he handed her in, and put her bag and dressing-case in the seat beside her.

“I hope I don’t inconvenience you,” the lady began, then stopped short, and held out her hand. “Why, Lawrence, it is actually you! What an unmitigated piece of good luck!”

And she threw up her veil, and showed the handsome but bold features of Mrs. O’Hara.

Colonel Dacre had always felt kindly toward Mrs. O’Hara, in spite of her many faults and indiscretions, and, indeed, during her married life she had been exceedingly popular in the regiment, on account of her unaffected good nature. Colonel Dacre remembered what she had been, and forgot what she was, so that he always found a cordial greeting for her when they came together. Their hands met in a warm grasp.

“You can’t think how glad I am to have some one to talk to,” she said, her eyes suddenly clouding with tears. “You have heard of my poor brother’s sad death?”

“To tell you the truth, Norah, I never knew you had a brother.”

“No; well, it was no use telling everybody,” she answered, with some embarrassment. “He did not go on quite as one could have wished, and of course it would have annoyed Jack to have George talked about as his brother-in-law.”

“But after your husband’s death?”

“Then it would have looked odd, surely, to have suddenly announced that I had a brother, as nobody had ever heard of him before.”

“You know, Norah, I always think honesty the best policy.”

“I started with the same notion, but I found out it did not do,” returned Mrs. O’Hara sadly. “All the women are against me now, because they say I am so gushing that I talk about the first thing that comes into my head, and so lead men away from their wives.”

“Yes; I have heard you accused of that, certainly,” interrupted Colonel Dacre, remembering the accusation Lady Gwendolyn had made. “There was Percy Gray, for instance.”

Mrs. O’Hara blushed vividly.

“As you say that honesty is the best policy, I will admit I did behave rather unwisely there. The fact was, Lady Maria brought what happened entirely on herself. Percy Gray hadn’t the faintest idea of falling in love with me, until she put it into his head; but—would you believe it?—when he was going to Norway fishing, she accused him of intending to elope with me. The consequence was that he couldn’t bear Lady Maria to tell a falsehood, and he came off at once and asked me to put her in the right.”

“And what did you do?”

“Ask Percy,” she returned dryly. “You know they used to say in the regiment that Norah O’Hara liked a piece of fun as well as anybody; but she’d make you remember it if you went an inch too far. And, to do them justice, our boys were all gentlemen.”

“Nevertheless, you weren’t always wise, Norah. I used to wonder often that Jack stood it.”

“We understood each other so well,” she answered, her eyes clouding again. “I can honestly declare that I never had even a thought that wasn’t true to him from the first to the last day of our married life.”

There was a minute’s silence, and then she added tearfully:

“I wish you would tell me how it really happened, Lawrence. Lady Lenox was so very ambiguous and mysterious, and though she means to save me pain, I dare say, I always prefer to know the truth. She hinted something about Lady Gwendolyn St. Maur, and another gentleman being jealous of poor George; but I could not make anything of her story, and she would not explain.”

“Look here, Norah,” he answered, with grave impressiveness. “Your brother is dead, and nothing can call him back now. Take my advice, and do not seek to know anything more, since it would only add to your distress.”

“Not if I could avenge him?”

“That would be a terrible task for a woman.”

“Not at all. I should like it. Indeed, if I could find out that my brother had met with foul play, I would hunt his murderer down, even if he were the best friend I had ever had.”

“The game is not worth the candle, Norah.”

“I think so, at any rate, and am going to Preston on purpose to consult a very clever lawyer there, whom Lady Lenox recommended to me. Poor George left me all he had, so that I shall be able to pursue the matter, if Mr. Barnard advises me to do so.”

“And supposing you were to help destroy an innocent person?”

“No fear of that. I am not quite a stupid, Lawrence. And to show you I am not, I may just say that I don’t believe Lady Gwendolyn St. Maur had anything whatever to do with my poor brother’s death.”

Colonel Dacre could hardly restrain himself from seizing her hand, and covering it with kisses, by way of showing his gratitude for this speech.

“I don’t fancy he even knew her,” pursued Mrs. O’Hara decidedly. “But listen to me, Lawrence, beware always of a cold-blooded coquette. You have been lecturing me for my bad behavior, but I can assure you that I am as harmless as a dove in comparison with a woman like that. A cold-blooded coquette only cares for herself, and after having encouraged a man for her amusement, dismisses him with a sneer the moment his passion becomes dangerous, inconvenient, or stands in the way of a new conquest. Whereas, I am such a poor, foolish thing, that I always grow quite fond of a man who has been spooning me a week or two, and cry when I bid him good-by.”

“I honestly believe you are not half as bad as you seem,” returned Colonel Dacre, with a faint smile. “But tell me, Norah—you know it will not go any further—have you the least reason for suspecting any one of having caused your brother’s death?”

“If so, I have no right to speak of my suspicion,” she replied, with a reticence that surprised him; it was so entirely foreign to her character. “Come and see me at the ‘Langham’ a week hence, and I may be able to tell you something. But here we are at Preston.”

He helped her down, and they were standing rather close together, her hand in his as he bade her good-by, and expressed his hope that she would apply to him if she required any assistance, when a veiled face bent eagerly out of the window in the full light of a lamp. A gust of wind lifted the gauze just as the train began to move, and the woman drew back hastily; but not before Colonel Dacre had recognized Lady Gwendolyn.

CHAPTER XI.

“WHAT’S IN A NAME?”

Colonel Dacre dropped Mrs. O’Hara’s hand as if it had stung him, and darted forward mechanically, as if to catch up to the train; but his companion’s frightened exclamation restored him to himself.

“For mercy’s sake be careful!” she called out, grasping his arm. “If you have left anything in the train you can telegraph.”

He stared at her blankly, and answered in a confused sort of way:

“I am afraid it is no use telegraphing, for I have no idea where to find her.”

“Where to find whom?”

“Lady Gwendolyn St. Maur.”

“She wasn’t in our train, surely?”

“I didn’t know she was, certainly; but I caught a glimpse of her face as it moved off.”

“But wasn’t it odd she did not speak to you, Lawrence? I fancied you were near neighbors at Borton, and very intimate.”

“Exactly,” he replied, in a vague way. “I saw Lady Gwendolyn this morning; but she did not tell me she was leaving Turoy.”

“Perhaps it was a sudden caprice,” replied Mrs. O’Hara carelessly. “But do you intend to stay in Preston to-night, Lawrence?”

“No; I am going on, I think; but, really, I have decided nothing yet. I had better see about your cab, had I not? You are going to a hotel, I presume?”

“Yes; to the ‘George.’ I shall see you a week hence in town, shall I not?”

“If I am alive,” he answered emphatically. “I am quite as anxious as you are to solve this terrible mystery.”

They had reached the end of the platform, and were quite alone for the minute. Mrs. O’Hara turned and faced him.

“Will you answer me one question, Lawrence?” she said.

“I don’t know,” he replied, flushing slightly.

“Are you in love with Lady Gwendolyn St. Maur? You know you may trust me, for I am one of those people who seem very frank, and yet never let out a secret. As I am not supposed to have any I am never even questioned, so that I am really as safe a confidante as it is possible for any one to have.”

“But I don’t need a confidante, Norah.”

“Nonsense,” she said decidedly. “There’s no comfort like talking over one’s troubles to a friend. I declare, when I got into the train this evening, I felt as if my heart were breaking, and now everything seems more bearable. I must tell you that I had a hint a little while ago that you were fond of Lady Gwendolyn, and what I have seen to-night confirms it, so you may as well tell me the truth.”

“Well,” he said, at last, diffidently but proudly, “I do love Gwendolyn St. Maur with all my heart.”

“Then I hope you may win her, if she is worthy of you,” said Mrs. O’Hara, with a cordial smile. “I know she does not like me, and thinks me a very dangerous woman; but then I am the bête noir of all Lady Maur’s friends.”

“Then do try and be more prudent for the future, Norah. You know people always argue that there is no smoke without fire.”

“People aren’t always to be trusted, Colonel Dacre,” she said, with affected formality. “One has heard of reports that were entirely false.”

“In that case, you almost invariably find that it had its origin in some imprudence.”

“Oh!” she answered loftily, “you may put me down for hundreds of those. I never could, would, or should be prudent; it is not in my nature.”

“Then can’t you change your nature, Norah?”

“No; I hate being perfect, and I can’t bear being bored; and if you lecture me any more, Lawrence, I’ll say something spiteful about Lady Gwendolyn: that she paints her cheeks—you know she has a lovely bloom—or dyes her hair—nobody believes in hair nowadays—or anything disagreeable I can think of at the moment; for I want comforting, not scolding, to-night—I do, indeed; and what is the use of a friend if he fails you in your need?”

“My dear Norah, I can assure you I meant to be sympathetic.”

“You ought to be,” she answered, with a dry sob. “I should feel for you if you had lost the only person in the world who really cared for you.”

“You are not quite so unfortunate as that, Norah. You know I have a sincere affection for you, for poor Jack’s sake, and your own as well. The best proof of that is my candor; for if I did not look upon you as a friend, I should not dare to give you good advice.”

“Never mind,” she said, holding out to him the hand with which she had just dashed away her tears. “I couldn’t be angry with you, if I would, for the sake of old times. I hope you will be happy, Lawrence, with all my heart, though your marriage with Lady Gwendolyn will rob me of a friend.”

She stepped into the cab, and, as he waved a last greeting, he little thought how and when they should meet again.

The next six days were passed he hardly knew how. He wandered from station to station on the Great Northern line trying to obtain some trace of Lady Gwendolyn; but without the least success. On the whole, he might as well have looked for a needle in a haystack; but the constant movement did him good, and kept him from absolute despair.

It seemed to him that the very force of his longing must bring them together at last. And so, perhaps, it did; but not as he had pictured and hoped.

It was the seventh day after his parting from Lady Gwendolyn, and, mindful of his appointment with Mrs. O’Hara, Colonel Dacre slept in town overnight, and proceeded to the “Langham” at eleven o’clock the next morning. After making due inquiries, he found that the widow was not there, neither had the manager any letter from her.

As that was the case, he left the hotel, saying he would call again later; and in the evening he presented himself again. This time he obtained more satisfaction. A young lady had just arrived, who had given this name, one of the waiters told him, and had a sitting-room and bedroom adjoining, on the first floor, Nos. 5 and 6.

With the aid of an obliging and comely chambermaid, Colonel Dacre found himself at No. 5 presently, and tapping lightly with his knuckles on the door, received a soft summons to enter. It was nearly dusk now, and he could not see very plainly, still it struck him that the outline of Mrs. O’Hara’s figure had grown very slender in the past week to anything he could remember it these last ten years. Nevertheless, he said, with assurance:

“I was quite afraid I should miss you, after all, Norah. This is the second time I have been to the ‘Langham’ to-day.”

“I am sorry you should be disappointed a second time also,” answered a voice as cold as ice.

“Mrs. O’Hara?” said Colonel Dacre, half inquiringly, half apologetically. “I am afraid I must have made some mistake.”

And he peered forward to obtain a glimpse of the face that was purposely concealed from him. At this moment a hand touched his shoulder from behind.

“Here I am, Lawrence. Have you been waiting long?”

“But surely there must be some mistake. They told me this was the room Mrs. O’Hara had ordered.”

She turned to the waiter, who had followed her and was about to light the gas.

“Didn’t you tell me this was the sitting-room Mrs. O’Hara had ordered?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“But it is already occupied.”

He stared stupidly at the shrinking figure near the fireplace, and then a bright idea seemed to strike him.

“Perhaps there’s two Mrs. O’Hara’s, ma’am.”

“I never thought of that; but it isn’t a common name,” replied the widow, with suppressed impatience. “Go and inquire about it, will you?”

“Shall I light the gas first, ma’am?”

“Certainly,” interposed Colonel Dacre, for, although he had not recognized the voice, it had left a strange feeling of expectancy behind, and he longed to see the face to which it belonged. Mrs. O’Hara was simply curious, while her namesake, seeing, no doubt, that escape was impossible, faced her tormentors boldly, like a hunted animal brought to bay.

Somehow, Colonel Dacre was not nearly so surprised as might have been expected, when the sudden light displayed the stately head and beautiful features of Lady Gwendolyn St. Maur. But he was surprised when Mrs. O’Hara, waiting for the door to close upon the waiter, advanced to the table, and said, in a tone of passionate repulsion:

“So it is you, my lady? I wonder you care to be here, although I do not wonder at your sheltering yourself behind an honest name. You have said many spiteful things of me in my time; but it has never been possible to say of me, with truth, that I destroyed a poor soul who loved me only too well.”

“I don’t understand you,” returned Lady Gwendolyn, with all the hauteur of her race.

“No? Then I will endeavor to make myself intelligible. I have just returned from Turoy.”

Lady Gwendolyn was all attention, but not by a movement of the eyelids even did she show interest or apprehension.

“I went there in the company of my solicitor and of a clever detective, whom he always employs when he has any difficult business on hand. The result was to leave us without the least moral doubt that my unfortunate brother came to his death through you.”

A sudden flash brightened Lady Gwendolyn’s eyes, but she answered quietly:

“Pray go on. I suppose you are prepared to prove what you have just stated?”

“Not yet,” Mrs. O’Hara admitted; “but we are fast collecting evidence.”

“Isn’t it a pity to warn me?” inquired Lady Gwendolyn, with quiet scorn. “By the time you have collected your evidence I may have made my escape, you know, since ‘forewarned is forearmed.’”

Mrs. O’Hara looked startled. She had never thought of that. Lady Gwendolyn smiled to herself as she walked up to the mantelpiece and rang the bell.

The waiter came hurrying back, and began, directly he entered the room:

“There are two Mrs. O’Hara’s, ma’am. I thought there must be. The other lady’s rooms are twenty-seven and twenty-eight.”

“Then pray show her there,” interrupted Lady Gwendolyn, turning her back coolly upon the above-mentioned lady.

As to Colonel Dacre, she had never once vouchsafed him so much as a glance. It was sufficient for her that he had come to the “Langham” to meet Mrs. O’Hara, and sanctioned the other’s accusations by his silence. When the room was, as she believed, clear, she flung herself into the nearest chair, with the passionate, indignant air of a woman who feels that she has been insulted as well as injured.

She had no idea Colonel Dacre had remained in the room until he touched her arm, half-deprecatingly, and said:

“Gwendolyn, I want to speak to you.”

She turned upon him almost fiercely then.

“You can have nothing to say that I should care to listen to, Colonel Dacre. You came here to meet Mrs. O’Hara, and therefore I should be extremely sorry to keep you from her.”

“As you know, Mrs. O’Hara and myself are old friends,” he answered quietly. “And when she asked me to meet her here upon business, I had no excuse for declining, especially as I was much interested in Mr. Belmont’s fate on her account. All this past week I have been searching for you most anxiously, and have had no satisfaction excepting a passing glimpse of your face at Preston station.”

“When you were escorting Mrs. O’Hara somewhere, and flirting with her publicly,” put in Lady Gwendolyn.

“I was simply bidding her good-by when you saw me, and that is a ceremony which may very well take place in public.”

“Under ordinary circumstances.”

“The circumstances were by no means extraordinary in our case, Gwendolyn. I met her by chance; we traveled together for a couple of hours; what more natural and commonplace? I have known Mrs. O’Hara for the last ten years, her husband was the best friend I ever had in the world. Would you have had me treat her like a stranger?”

“I have no right to dictate to you,” she answered coldly.

“Indeed, you have every right, Gwendolyn, since I have asked you to be my wife.”

“You forget that I declined the honor.”

“I did not understand you so. You coquetted with my impatience as women are fond of doing, and finally left me in suspense; but you never absolutely refused me.”

“Then I will repair my omission. I beg to thank you for the honor you have done me in asking me to be your wife,” she said, with great formality; “but I have no wish to marry, and have not the confidence in or affection for you that would induce me to change my resolution.”

Although there was a certain insolence in her manner most men would have resented bitterly under the circumstances, he felt too sorry for her, and for himself, to resent what she said. She was casting away not only her happiness, but her safety, and he knew why. In his heart he felt sure that Lady Gwendolyn would have accepted him but for his unfortunate rendezvous with Mrs. O’Hara. He forgot that “trifles light as air are to the jealous confirmations strong as proofs of holy writ”; and she had seen him at Preston station making, as would seem, a very public display of his regard for the handsome widow.

And Lady Gwendolyn was one of those women who would forgive a blow better than she would forgive the least shadow of unfaithfulness. It was useless to make excuses, Colonel Dacre knew, for she would believe her own eyes better than his words; but he could not help saying, deprecatingly:

“I have done nothing to forfeit your confidence, Lady Gwendolyn; but if you do not like me, you are right to deny me. I had hoped different, for—for”—his voice breaking—“I have loved you very dearly. How much, you may, perhaps, know one of these days. I seem to have nothing to hope for in the world now, and yet I do not wish to leave it; because, dreary as my life must needs be, it may still be brightened over in a way by a glimpse of your face.”

“I should be sorry to think you would have no brightness beyond that,” she answered coldly. “But I am sure Mrs. O’Hara will take good care of you in every way.”

“Has it not occurred to you that Mrs. O’Hara and myself may never meet again after to-day?”

“Of course it has not,” she said. “There is nothing to prevent your spending the rest of your lives together.”

“Pardon me, there is one insurmountable impediment.”

She turned and looked at him with a sort of suppressed eagerness in her eyes; but she was too proud to question him outright. However, he saw that she wished him to tell her, and went on:

“The thing that stands in the way of such a consummation, and makes it impossible, is the disinclination on each side. Norah O’Hara, as I told you once before, could never be anything to me but my friend’s widow, and I could never be anything to her but her husband’s friend. I would go a long way to serve her, for the sake of old times; but as to marrying her——However, I ought not to speak in this way,” he added quickly. “Assuredly Mrs. O’Hara would not marry me if I wished it ever so much.”

“How do you know that?”

In spite of the confidence with which he had spoken this question staggered him. It had never occurred to him as possible that Mrs. O’Hara could care for him otherwise than he had said, and yet the suggestion made him uneasy. No man was ever less of a coxcomb, but he was not a fool, either, and this hint had opened his eyes. He began to recall things Mrs. O’Hara had said and done, her evident animus against Lady Gwendolyn, and a sudden, painful instinct of the truth began to dawn upon him.

A scarlet flush mounted to his brows, and he lowered his head under Lady Gwendolyn’s searching glance. He was so chivalrous naturally that it pained him to think Mrs. O’Hara had betrayed her secret, since this must needs be such a deep humiliation to a proud spirit like hers.

Finding he did not answer, Lady Gwendolyn repeated: “How do you know that?” as if she were determined to have an answer.

“One can’t always give a reason for the faith that is in one,” he returned evasively. “Anyhow, supposing what you say were true, I could not help Mrs. O’Hara’s feelings.”

“Unless you had encouraged them.”

“I have never considered it possible for any encouragement of this sort to come from a man. It is your privilege solely, and it would be horribly conceited of us to usurp it.”

“I do not see why a man should not be allowed to show that he appreciates the favor shown him if he really does so.”

“That is a different thing to giving encouragement, as you call it. I like Mrs. O’Hara for old association’s sake; we have always been upon very cordial terms since her marriage to my friend; but as to anything else, I declare on my honor it has never so much as entered my head.”

“If it had, it is no affair of mine, Colonel Dacre,” she answered frigidly. “Mrs. O’Hara is lucky in having a friend, for she certainly needs somebody to give her good advice. It is not either usual or safe to make accusations you cannot prove. If she does me the honor of being jealous of me, and wishes to drive me out of England, she has gone the wrong way to work, for I mean to take a house in London, and live as much en evidence as possible. If Mrs. O’Hara or any one else can prove that I ever spoke to Mr. Belmont in my life, let them do so; but I think they must commence by this. One does not become terribly in love, frightfully jealous, and murderously angry with a perfect stranger, you know.”

“If Mrs. O’Hara finds that you and her brother were perfect strangers, she will withdraw her accusation, of course. And, meanwhile, being false, it need not trouble you.”

“It does not trouble me in the least,” she answered defiantly. “Only give your friend Mrs. O’Hara this word of warning from me: every scandalous word I can trace to her I will make her prove, or she shall take the consequences.”

“I shall not probably see her again, Gwendolyn. From the moment she is your enemy she has ceased to be my friend.”

A rosy flash, such as you see in the clouds at sunset, passed over the girl’s beautiful face. She half extended her hand, then drew it back, saying, with forced composure:

“I have no right to separate you two. Indeed, it would be cruel if I did, since you and I can never be anything more to each other than we are now.”

“Gwendolyn, you will drive me mad! I follow you about like a dog, and get nothing but harsh usage in return. Can’t you teach yourself to be merciful?”

“I must try first to be just.”

“A fig for justice! Who cares to even hear the name?” he cried vehemently. “A woman is never just unless she is supremely indifferent to the person she has to judge, and anything is better than that. I want you for myself, child, don’t you hear?”

He drew closer, and would have taken her hand; but remembering how foolishly weak she had been at their last interview, she took refuge on the other side of the table before she would even parley with him. Then she spoke out loudly and clearly:

“I don’t wish to appear harsh, Colonel Dacre. I have a certain duty to perform, and I stand so entirely alone nowadays that I am obliged to take a very independent tone; but I would not give you unnecessary pain for the world. Indeed, I am very grateful to you for believing in me a little; but you know I have another reason, besides the one I gave just now, for refusing to be your wife. If you could explain satisfactorily about the lady I saw at Borton, and this cruel slander had been silenced, then——”

“Finish your sentence, Gwendolyn.”

“Then I might, perhaps, marry you; but you see, at present, it is out of the question.”

“That I deny. I see no just cause or impediment why we should not be married to-morrow, supposing both of us were willing.”

“But as we are not both of us willing, there is no use in discussing the question any longer. I am so tired. It seems to me I would give everything I am likely to possess in this world for a few hours of oblivion and rest.”

And her face looked strangely haggard and troubled in the strong, white light of the chandelier.

“Only that you are such a will-o’-the-wisp,” he said complainingly. “If I let you go now, I shall never see you again.”

“I don’t know about that,” she said, with a faint smile. “I begin to have a feeling as if I could not escape you if I would.”

“Then why try?” he asked softly.

“Because I can’t help myself,” she answered, with a blush; and then she added desperately: “You must leave me now; I cannot stand any more—indeed I cannot.”

“Will you promise to see me to-morrow, Gwendolyn?”

“I cannot promise anything, for I am too broken down to realize the sense of what I am saying. I will see you if I can, although these interviews only harass us both, and do us no good. Still, since you wish it, I will try to satisfy you, although I feel to-night as if I must be going to have a serious illness.”

Her glittering eyes, white cheeks, and feverish lips showed that there really was something wrong with her; and Colonel Dacre looked at her anxiously.

“You have done too much,” he said. “If I leave you, will you promise to go straight to bed?”

“Yes, that I will, thankfully. Good night.”

The table was not between them now, somehow, and, before she had time to resist, he caught her in his arms, and kissed her lips and eyes in a mad passion of love. Then, without waiting for her reproaches, he hurried from the room.

That night he stayed at the “Langham,” unknown to either Lady Gwendolyn or Mrs. O’Hara. His mind disturbed by the events of the day, he found it impossible to sleep, and yet he knew he should be useless all day unless he could get some rest for his aching brain. Finally it occurred to him that his traveling-flask was full of fine old cognac, and that, as physical exhaustion, as well as mental worry, had something to do with his wakefulness, some stimulant might help him through.

He therefore mixed himself a pretty strong dose—about twice the quantity he would have taken ordinarily—and then lay down again, his nerves wonderfully soothed, and a pleasant languor stilling the riot of his irritable pulse.

His last conscious act was to glance at the clock, and say to himself:

“I must not sleep for more than three hours, at the longest.”

And he fancied—but that must have been the beginning of a grotesque dream—that the clock winked at him, as much as to express, derisively: “We shall see.”

CHAPTER XII.

A WILL-O’-THE-WISP.

Colonel Dacre thought it very wrong to swear, and always denied himself this relief upon principle; but this morning, when he opened his eyes full upon the clock, which had a jeering, jaunty way of pointing at nine, he certainly did feel as if an occasional indulgence this time must be a pardonable offense.

He sprang out of bed, and rang at once for the waiter. He was about to put some questions to him, when the man handed him a couple of letters, saying:

“I was told to give you them directly you woke, sir. Is there anything you want, sir?”

“Only have my breakfast ready in half an hour,” answered Colonel Dacre, with assumed indifference; and the moment the man had closed the door, he tore open the letter that lay uppermost in his hand.

It was from Lady Gwendolyn, and ran thus:

“Dear Colonel Dacre: La nuit porte conseil, you say, and the result is that I think it far better we should not meet. Pardon me if I have given you pain by this decision. One of these days you will thank me for having had the courage to deny you. I must mean to do what is right, for I cannot help telling you that this is the greatest sorrow of my life.

“Gwendolyn St. Maur.”

The second was from Mrs. O’Hara, and was quite as expressive in its way.

“Dear Lawrence: I see that you take Lady Gwendolyn’s part: her false, fatal beauty has glamoured you, poor soul! I must needs forgive you, for the sake of old times; but I should only worry you with my friendship, now that you have learned what it is to love, so that I may as well get out of your way quietly. If you ever want to see me again, I dare say you will be able to find me; but, in any case, I have too deep and affectionate a recollection of ‘auld lang syne’ to subscribe myself anything but

Your sincere friend,

“Norah O’Hara.”

“I have lost my friend and sweetheart both, by lying too late,” said Colonel Dacre to himself, with a dreary sigh; for he was not dolt enough even to inquire if the two ladies were still at the “Langham.”

Colonel Dacre smashed the clock before he went down to breakfast, and only smiled grimly when he saw that five pounds was charged for the damage in his bill.

On second thoughts, he stayed where he was that day because it was no use going anywhere else. He was utterly discouraged now. The strength of Lady Gwendolyn’s will frightened him.

He had fancied that all women were weak and yielding, and here was one who made a resolution, and kept it, as he believed, for duty’s sake, although her heart was pulling her the opposite way.

It was quite a revelation, and somehow made him respect all women more for her sake. He wished now he had held her fast when she was in his power, and made her marry him right off.

Lord Teignmouth had forfeited all claim to be consulted, and, though Gwendolyn hesitated and argued now, he had a notion she would not have been sorry to have had the decision taken out of her hands.

“Gwendolyn is just the kind of woman to admire a man who conquers her,” Colonel Dacre said to himself. “But the least hesitation or weakness of purpose would spoil all. She must see in me only the master who commands—not the lover who pleads—or she will writhe out of my grasp, somehow, even at the altar rails. Oh! if I had only been wiser, and more understanding, how happy I might be now!”

He determined to show Lady Gwendolyn that he had some fertility of resource, and as strong a will as her own, the next time they met; and with this view he went off to Doctors’ Commons, and bought a special license. Then, all things being fair in love and war, and the position being very hopeless under its present aspect, he descended to a ruse, which, under ordinary circumstances, would have been unpardonable.

He put an advertisement in several of the daily papers, so worded that only Gwendolyn could understand it, and stating himself to be in such a condition, both mentally and physically, that if, knowing all, she did not come to him at once, his death would be on her conscience.

And then he waited.

“You will find me at the hotel where we parted yesterday,” he had said; and, therefore, we may be sure he did not quit his rooms for a second.

He sent for newspapers and books; but he was far too restless to read. With his face glued to the window-pane, he watched eagerly every carriage that drew up to the entrance.

He had suffered breakfast and luncheon to go away untasted; but when dinner was placed on the table, he felt so strange that it occurred to him he must be suffering from inanition, and he poured himself out a glass of sherry, and emptied it at a draft. It felt like liquid fire, and stung his throat; but the effect was magical.

His sluggish pulses quickened, the blood in his veins seemed to dance vivaciously to the air of the delicious waltz he had last danced with Lady Gwendolyn.

The air was so full of her sweet presence he persuaded himself she must be coming, and began to eat eagerly. He would need all his strength to-night, and could not afford to waste a single chance. But his appetite was not as large as his aspirations. He got half-way through his soup valiantly enough, then a sudden feeling of nausea came over him, and he pushed away his plate, and rose from the table, resuming his former place at the window.

It was growing dark now, but he could still distinguish the passers-by; and when a lady alighted presently from a cab at the door, his heart gave a great bound and thrill.

For her figure was slender and graceful, like Lady Gwendolyn’s; and she gathered her skirts over her arm in a way he remembered well. But the light of the lamp over the door fell full on her face as she turned to pay the driver his fare, and then he gave a lamenting sigh.

The lady was not half as handsome as Gwendolyn; but she was nearly twice her age, to make up. After awhile it became so dark that he had to retire from his post of observation, and then he passed the time watching the door. Of course, he expected her every minute, and, of course, she did not come.

Colonel Dacre became in a perfect fever of expectancy and apprehension as the night advanced; and as he still found it impossible to sleep, he naturally felt exhausted and faint.

Only that Gwendolyn might come while he was away, and then, of course, she would find out his ruse, and then there would be an end to his wooing.

The only chance for him was to be on the spot at the supreme moment, and take her by storm. So he stayed at home, and when his sensations became unbearable, he tried his remedy of the night before, and then stumbled into bed.

CHAPTER XIII.

DOCTOR MAY’S PATIENT.

Colonel Dacre would never forget that night of torture. The fever seemed to increase every hour, until the very pillows felt as if they were burning hot, and he stepped out of his tumbled bed, at last, and threw himself on the floor. The only comfort he had was in repeating to himself again and again: “She will come to-day—she will come to-day!” But the day passed, somehow, and there was no sign of Lady Gwendolyn.

When the evening came round again he felt badly enough to alarm him a little, and he made the waiter fetch him a doctor. The pompous medico looked very grave when he had felt Colonel Dacre’s pulse.

“Why, really, my dear sir, you must have been excessively imprudent!” he said. “Where did you get your cold?”

Lawrence answered him by another question.

“Have I a cold, then?”

“Aye, and with a vengeance. I doubt if you will be able to leave your bed for another fortnight.”

Colonel Dacre uttered a cry of dismay.

“Nonsense, doctor, it can’t be as bad as that. Do oblige me by sitting down, and in ten minutes I shall be able to prove to you that I am already on the high way to recovery.”

The doctor smiled. If his patient did talk a little nonsense, it was natural enough. With such a pulse nothing better could be expected of him.

“Or rather say you will be shortly, if you keep quiet,” he said, with the diplomatic air of a man who is accustomed to humor sick people’s fancies.

“Well, but what is the matter with me? I would rather know the truth, if you please.”

“You have inflammation of the lungs, and as you have evidently no constitutional weakness of the chest, you must have been terribly reckless to get yourself in such a state as this.”

“I am not conscious of having misconducted myself as you suggest,” he answered dryly. “People are unaccountably ill sometimes, surely.”

“There must be a cause.”

“That’s begging the question,” said Colonel Dacre, ashamed to find himself so irritable. “You must really excuse me, doctor, but my nerves feel so jarred, it would be quite a pleasure to me to make myself disagreeable.”

“Do, by all means, if it would be any relief to you,” returned the other cheerfully. “But I ought to tell you that I fear you are on the brink of a very serious illness, and that it would be better for you to get into a quieter place while you can be moved.”

“But I am very comfortable here, doctor.”

“For the moment; but you will need more quiet than you can get at an hotel, however well-conducted it may be. You will be obliged to have a nurse——”

“Never!” he cried emphatically. “Sairey Gamp has always been my bugbear!”

“So she has mine,” was the reply. “And, therefore, all the nurses I recommend are comparatively young, and are always bright and pleasant-looking.”

“And do they have a bottle of gin on the mantelpiece to put their lips to when so disposed?”

“My nurses are teetotalers; all they expect in the way of stimulant is plenty of strong tea, and I don’t imagine you would grudge them that.”

“Not if they drink it elsewhere; but I don’t want coddling, doctor. I shall be all right again in a day or two, no doubt.”

The other shook his head.

“I don’t want to be a Job’s comforter, but I can’t say I see much chance of that. Anyhow, if you will stay at this hotel you had better move into quieter rooms on an upper landing. You cannot surely object to that?”

Colonel Dacre made this concession readily enough, and as Doctor May found he was likely to be rather an intractable patient, he gave the necessary orders at once.

In another hour Colonel Dacre found himself in new quarters high up at the back of the house, where it was cooler and quieter both.

He was given over to a chambermaid now, and welcomed the amendment, for her step was lighter, her service more gentle. She even showed a certain interest in his state, and wanted to know if he hadn’t a mother, or a wife, or any one to take care of him, sighing sympathetically when he declared himself to be alone in the world.

Colonel Dacre thought the matter over very exhaustively that evening. Doctor May, who paid him a visit at about nine, had given him an opiate which soothed his nerves, and kept him quiet, although it did not make him sleep, and therefore he had plenty of time for reflection.

Strange to say, his head was singularly clear all that night, but toward morning he found his mind wandering off, and was very angry with himself, persisting in thinking it must be his own fault.

When Doctor May called in the morning, Colonel Dacre evidently looked upon his visit as an intrusion, but was careful to be distantly polite.

“I have a vague recollection of having seen you before,” he said; “but my memory is so bad I cannot recall your name.”

“I am Doctor May; you sent for me yesterday, you know,” answered the other quietly. “I am afraid you are not feeling so well.”

“Nothing much the matter—all right to-morrow,” he muttered hoarsely. And then he added, in a confidential tone: “Will you do something for me?”

“Willingly, if I can.”

“Let them show her up directly she comes. She is peculiarly sensitive, I must tell you, and the least delay—you understand?”

“I understand,” repeated Doctor May, smiling reassuringly into his haggard eyes. “You wish her to be brought up-stairs directly she arrives?”

Colonel Dacre, usually one of the most reserved men in England, seized his hand, and pressed it warmly. Then, straightening himself as he lay, he said with the graceful courtesy of a man of the world:

“I shall hope to see you at my wedding, doctor——”

“May,” put in the other.

“Doctor May. It will take place by special license to-morrow at twelve. I can’t remember where at this moment, but that is immaterial. However, I have a word for your private ear.” Doctor May bent his head close to the other’s lips. “She is the sweetest woman in England; but she has one little defect—come closer if you please—she—she——”

Doctor May looked at him compassionately as he sank back on his pillow, muttering incoherently, for he greatly feared that in spite of his iron frame, he would not be able to pull his patient through, and it seemed hard he should die in his prime, and die solitary and alone.

CHAPTER XIV.

MY LOVE—MY LIFE.

When Doctor May left Colonel Dacre’s room, after having given certain orders to the comely chambermaid, he sought and obtained an interview with the manager of the hotel. To him he represented Colonel Dacre’s state, asking him if he could conscientiously guarantee his having the attention and quiet upon which his life would probably depend?

Monsieur Bause answered readily that the season being over, and the hotel comparatively empty, Colonel Dacre could have as much attention as if he were in his own home.

“Only the maid servants now sleep on the landing to which he has been moved,” pursued Monsieur Bause. “When we are full we use some of those rooms for bachelors; but there is no fear of our being put to such a necessity in August.”

“Are you quite sure? Pardon me for persisting, Monsieur Bause; but, you see, I feel Colonel Dacre to be doubly dependent upon me, as he appears to have no friends to share my responsibility. It would be a risk to move him now, perhaps; but later on it would be certain death.”

“I assure you, doctor, you need not be anxious on your patient’s account. I will watch over him myself, and see that all your orders are strictly carried out.”

And he looked so trustworthy, and capable of so much, as if he could have managed a dozen sick-rooms and his hotel at the same time. Doctor May could not help saying:

“If you promise me that, I am sure it will be all right.”

“You will have a nurse for the gentleman, doctor, I presume?”

“Most certainly. I am going off at once to see about one, and will endeavor to get her here in a few hours. Meanwhile, the young woman who has been waiting upon Colonel Dacre will be able to do what is necessary, and I shall be in and out several times.”

“The gentleman is very ill, I suppose, sir?”

“Very ill, indeed. I doubt if I can pull him through; and shall call in Doctor Forbes to consult with me, unless there is a marked improvement to-morrow morning.”

While this conversation was going on below, a stealthy figure stole up-stairs to the room Doctor May had just quitted, and paused at the door, listening. As all was quiet within, the woman entered noiselessly, and went up to the sick man’s bed. He lay apparently asleep; and who shall describe the haggard, passionate face of the woman as she knelt beside him, and bent down until her golden hair mingled with his tawny mustache.

“My darling!” she murmured at his ear, “I know all this is my fault; but only get better—only get better—and we will give the world the go-by, and be happy our own way. If only I were your wife, that I might stay by you now! I am sure you would be well at once! and oh! my dearest, I want you so badly, and I have only you.”

It seemed as if these tender words penetrated to the very heart of his sleep, for he stirred slightly, and muttered a name in a yearning voice.

A light came over the woman’s face, and she smiled faintly, but sweetly, as she bent lower still, until her lips brushed Colonel Dacre’s feverish cheek. Then, as if scared by her own boldness, she rose quickly to her feet, and with one backward look toward the bed, darted to the door and disappeared, running straight into the arms of Mary, the chambermaid.

“What were you doing in that room?” inquired Mary, in a tone of just severity. “It’s no use me having my orders, and being responsible for carrying them out, if you are to interfere.”

A vivid blush mounted into the other’s beautiful face, but she answered, quite humbly:

“I wanted to see him so much. You won’t tell of me, will you?”

“Well,” answered Mary uncompromisingly, “if the doctor asks me I can’t lie, you know.”

“He will be sure not; why should he? And I have done no harm. Have you nobody you care for very much?”

It was Mary’s turn to blush now.

“That’s neither here nor there,” she said. “Your duty is your duty, and the doctor told me to keep the poor gentleman perfectly quiet.”

“I assure you I haven’t disturbed him in the least. Look in, and you will find he is still fast asleep.”

She pushed a sovereign into Mary’s hand as she spoke, and the glitter of gold seemed to alter the girl’s views and feelings. Her eyes and voice became charmingly sympathetic.

“Ah! I see,” she said; “you are going to be married to the poor gentleman. I’ll let you in as often as I can manage it, but I am afraid the nurse will be a tougher customer. However, I’ll do my best, miss.”

“Thank you,” answered the lady softly. “I should be very grateful, and you will not repent your kindness.”

This time Mary dropped a curtsey. She began to see that the other was a perfect lady.

“If you would tell me your room, miss, I would bring you down news of the poor gentleman every three hours or so. As I am to wait upon the nurse I shall know exactly how he is going on.”

“Thank you; I should be very glad. I am just below, the first room on the right as you go down.”

“And what name, if you please?”

There was a slight hesitation, and then the answer came loud and clear.

“Miss Mordaunt. And Mary——” hesitatingly.

“Yes, miss.”

“If he should be hopelessly bad, you will call me, will you not? Even if it should be the middle of the night, come to me all the same. I should die of a broken heart if I were not to see him at the last.”

“I promise I will call you, miss; but let’s hope for better things,” she added encouragingly. “He looks like a strong gentleman, and I don’t suppose there’s any call to spare expense.”

This she said to find out Colonel Dacre’s means, and Miss Mordaunt’s reply was very satisfactory.

“Not the least in the world! He is a rich man, and there is no reason why he should not have everything in the world he wants.”

“I am glad of that, poor gentleman! I’m sure I would do anything for him whether he had money or not, he is so kind and pleasant-spoken; but, then, in an hotel, they have to be particular, and Monsieur Bause is only manager, and is responsible to the company, you see.”

“Nobody could blame him for being particular,” answered Miss Mordaunt; “but, in this case, he has nothing to fear.”

“Oh! no, miss, I am sure he hasn’t,” replied Mary, with confidence. “And the poor gentleman will be done justice by, for Monsieur Bause has already locked up all his money and rings, for fear of accidents. Not that he is afraid of our taking them,” she added quickly; “but, you see, in a large house like this there are so many people in and out.”

“Exactly! and it is better to be too careful than not careful enough,” said Miss Mordaunt, casting a very wistful glance toward the door of the sick-room, as she prepared to depart. “You will come down and tell me what the doctor thinks about Colonel Dacre this afternoon, Mary.”

“Certainly, miss; you may quite trust me. I shall be in and out continually, even after the nurse comes.”

Miss Mordaunt went away then, very slowly and softly, like a person who has a great trouble at heart, and, looking after her, until only the tip of her aristocratic nose was visible, Mary said to herself:

“I shouldn’t wonder if she is a duchess in disguise. Anyhow, she is a real, born lady, and knows how to behave, so I can’t do better than serve her; and if the poor gentleman ever gets well, and he’s as fond of her as she is of him, why, I dare say there will be something coming in from both sides.”

Mary did not mean to be mercenary, and had good feeling in the main; but she was going to be married as soon as her young man could save up money enough to buy furniture, and so every sixpence she could earn became a precious acquisition.

The nurse arrived about four o’clock, and Miss Mordaunt, who had been sitting with her door ajar all the afternoon, examined her anxiously as she went past. She had a firm face, but a bright and sympathetic expression; and there was something in her upright carriage that inspired confidence irresistibly.

Miss Mordaunt shut the door when the other had passed, and sank into a chair, letting her nerveless hands drop to her side.

“Thank Heaven!” she murmured, “at least he will have every chance.”

The next few days were days of indescribable misery and suspense to the anxious watcher in No. 56.

Colonel Dacre lay between life and death, and the doctor came out of the sick-room always with a terribly grave face. But for a little compromise she had made with Mary, Miss Mordaunt would have fallen ill herself with worry.

The nurse had four hours’ rest during the day, and directly she was safely shut into her room, the girl ran down to fetch Miss Mordaunt, and allowed her to take her place at Colonel Dacre’s bedside. It was such a comfort to be doing something. Only those who have had to stand by helpless, when those they loved were sick and suffering, will understand the poor girl’s thankfulness for Mary’s concession.

The chambermaid would have got into sad disgrace if she had been found out; but she was willing to run the risk, as Miss Mordaunt’s gratitude took a substantial form, and, moreover, she was really interested in the lovers.

On one of these occasions Miss Mordaunt had a serious fright. She had scarcely settled herself in the sick-room, and was just measuring out the medicine that Mary had been charged to give the sick man at this time, when she heard Doctor May’s step and voice on the landing below. He was evidently talking to Monsieur Bause, and must have forgotten something, as he had paid his usual midday visit before the nurse had gone to lie down.

The color mounted in a flood to the girl’s delicate face, and her heart beat like a sledge-hammer against her side. A discovery of this sort would necessitate all kinds of painful explanations and humiliating confessions, and she did not know how far Doctor May was to be trusted. But while she stood hesitating, panting, confused, Mary suddenly appeared on the scene, whisked the glass out of her hand, pushed her toward the closet, and, closing the door upon her, locked it softly. There was not even room to stand upright, but Miss Mordaunt was too thankful for her deliverance to take heed of such a trifle.

She crouched down in the easiest position she could find, and listened with all her ears.

“Where is nurse?” inquired Doctor May, as he entered.

“It is nurse’s time for lying down, sir,” answered Mary, in a voice that trembled slightly as from hurry or surprise. “But if you have any orders, sir——”

“I had forgotten to tell her that I did not wish Colonel Dacre to have any more of the medicine I sent yesterday; I will let her have a new bottle in half an hour, and she is to give him a dose of that directly it arrives.”

“Very well, sir.”

“Be sure you don’t make any mistake; or, stop, I’ll take the other bottle away with me, and then it is sure to be all right.”

He made for the cupboard, recollecting that the medicine, etc., was kept on a shelf there, but Mary nervously interposed.

“I know which it is, sir, quite well, and will empty it directly, so that you needn’t trouble to take it away.”

Doctor May was a man of quick penetration, and Mary’s manner seemed to him so suspicious that, although he would have been quite satisfied with her arrangement under ordinary circumstances, he resolved now to investigate the matter for himself.

Moving her aside, he placed his hand on the key of the door to turn it, when Mary, thinking she had done all that had been expected of her, vanished from the scene, leaving Miss Mordaunt to bear the brunt of her own imprudence, and explain things as best she could.

Miss Mordaunt knew that detection was inevitable, and would have been equal to the position even now if she had only been on her feet; but what was to become of her dignity while she crawled out of the cupboard? She felt that it was impossible to overcome such a disadvantage, so that when Doctor May threw open the door, and, looking full into her eyes, said softly, but imperiously: “Come out,” she gave all attention to her ankles, and left her dignity to take care of itself.

When she had lifted herself up, and was facing him, Doctor May looked at her with unconcealed astonishment. Although her hair and dress were disordered, and her face crimson, it was impossible to take her for anything but a gentlewoman, and if he had expected to find anybody it was a slim young waiter whom he had caught once in earnest conversation with Mary on the stairs.

A minute’s silence, and then Miss Mordaunt said quietly:

“I suppose I ought to explain, unless—unless you have already guessed.”

“I think I have,” answered Doctor May, with a smile. “But I am sorry you did not confide in me at once, as I would have made it possible for you to see him without hiding in the cupboard. Are you staying in this hotel?”

“Yes,” she replied, with some reluctance.

“What is the number of your room?”

“Fifty-six.”

“And your name?”

“Is it necessary to catechize so closely, Doctor May?”

“Well, the last question was superfluous, certainly, for I knew you directly I saw you.”

“Knew me?” she repeated, the color mounting once more into her face, and her lips trembling. “Oh! surely not!”

“Why should you mind? As a professional man, I am nothing if I am not discreet. What is more, I respect and admire a lady of position who casts aside conventionalities, and dares, for once, to listen to her heart.”

“But the world would be very cruel if it knew all.”

“Perhaps. I really don’t know anything about your world. But need it know all? You can surely remain, Miss Mordaunt, for the present.”

“If you have recognized me, another might.”

“Then take care ‘another’ doesn’t see you. With ordinary precaution, you need not excite attention. I presume that you have been in the habit of taking Mary’s place from the beginning?”

“Ever since Colonel Dacre was insensible.”

“Exactly. Then the girl, being in your confidence, will help you, of course.”

“And the nurse?”

“Oh! I can easily manage her; she is not the kind of woman to be astonished at anything. I shall simply tell her that the lady to whom Colonel Dacre is going to be married is staying in the hotel, and would like to see him sometimes; and you will find you have only to present yourself at the door to obtain ready admittance.”

“Thank you very much, Doctor May; only that if it would excite Colonel Dacre to see me——”

“All the while he remains in his present state nothing can excite him,” replied Doctor May. “Directly I see a change for better or worse I will let you know.”

“You are very kind. I am glad now that you know all about it.”

And she held out her hand with pretty impulsiveness. He lifted it respectfully to his lips, and then he let it fall with a sigh, and found himself envying Colonel Dacre. It was worth while even to be “sick unto death” for such a woman’s love.

CHAPTER XV.

A JOYFUL AWAKENING.

As we said before, only those who have watched by the sick-bed of one they love better than themselves can picture the next few days.

Doctor May had made the nurse understand that “Miss Mordaunt” had a right to be with Colonel Dacre, and the two watched every night together, expecting every hour to be the last. Miss Mordaunt was worn to a shadow with these anxious nights, for she did not even rest in the daytime, like her companion. How could she sleep through these precious minutes, which might be the only comfort in the future—a memory that would be more to her than any living love?

For she had sworn to be Colonel Dacre’s widow if she was never to be his wife. Colonel Dacre had been ten days unconscious, and hovering so close on the edge of the “valley of the shadow,” that sometimes they thought he had gone for good, and could never creep back into the light again. But he had a strong constitution, and fought every inch of the ground resolutely.

At last Doctor May said:

“There will be a crisis to-night. I see a great change coming on, but whether for good or evil, I cannot tell as yet, since the rally before death often deceives us for the moment.”

“Couldn’t you remain with us?” inquired Miss Mordaunt wistfully. “I don’t mean sit up, for I know you oughtn’t to do that; but if you were sleeping in one of these rooms close to us, it would be a great comfort; and we need not call you unless it is absolutely necessary.”

There is not much men will not do for a beautiful woman who knows how to manage them, and Doctor May had long since lost the power of denying Colonel Dacre’s fiancée. He had promised himself elsewhere, but that did not weigh with him for a moment. He had been dreaming wild dreams of late. Hearts were caught in the rebound, and if anything happened to his patient, why should not he take his place?

Of course there was a great disparity between them, socially speaking; but he knew cases in which this had been ignored, and Miss Mordaunt did not appear the kind of person to stop at anything when she loved. He was ashamed of himself, but he could not help the thought. It is the fate of women who are so wondrously fair to make all the men who come in contact with them either dolts or knaves.

He turned to her with a faint smile.

“I will certainly remain if it is any comfort to you. I will go at once and see a few of my most pressing cases, and then return.”

“I can never thank you enough,” she murmured. “It will be such a great relief to feel that you are near.”

By ten o’clock Doctor May had come back, and they had settled in the sick-room for the night. Doctor May had refused to lie down, and insisted upon keeping them company, the truth being that he was too much interested in the denouement to feel as if he could sleep.

There was a slight restlessness in Colonel Dacre’s manner, but he still remained unconscious; and Miss Mordaunt sat beside his pillow, with her anxious, beautiful eyes fixed persistently on his white face. On the opposite side Doctor May watched, too—not the patient, but her—while nurse, relieved from all responsibility, dozed comfortably.

At last the sick man’s eyelids began to tremble, and Miss Mordaunt held her very breath for eagerness. Finally he opened his eyes full upon her, and said, languidly but without surprise:

“Are you here, Gwen?”

“Hush!” she answered, with a thankfulness far too deep for outward expression. “You must not talk; must he, Doctor May?”

Doctor May was as pale as the sick man, as he lifted his head to answer:

“Certainly not. The best thing for Colonel Dacre now is sleep. Give him a few spoonfuls of beef tea, and then keep him as quiet as you can. As I am not wanted any more, I’ll go and lie down.”

The girl looked radiant, and there were tears of gratitude in her dark eyes.

“I can’t talk about things to-night,” she followed him to the door to say; “but if ever there should be any way in which I could serve you——”

“Thank you, Lady Gwendolyn,” he answered, with peculiar gravity; “you have paid me the greatest compliment in your power by trusting me with your secret.”

“Oh! I wasn’t the least afraid.”

“Thank you for saying so. I shall never, of course, breathe a word of all that has happened lately.”

“I know that. But how did you guess my name, Doctor May?”

“You forget that your portrait is in almost every print-shop in London, Lady Gwendolyn.”

“True; it is very impertinent of people, but my brother said it could not be helped.”

“I shall hear of your marriage soon, I suppose?” he ventured to say, emboldened by her gracious manner; “and, believe me, Lady Gwendolyn, no one will pray for your happiness more earnestly than I.”

“I am sure of that,” she replied, holding her hand to him with a rosy blush. “But I do not know yet anything about my marriage. You see, my brother is away, and—there are certain little difficulties. But I am so happy to-night, I can only look on the bright side; and I feel as if things must come right. See, Doctor May, Colonel Dacre is already asleep. Oh!”—with a sudden, frightened glance at her companion—“is it sleep? He looks so terribly like death! Do come and see!”

She drew him forward with nervous haste, and watched him, with her heart in her eyes, as he bent over the sick man and felt his pulse.

“It is all right—but he will look like this for awhile—he is so terribly pulled down. However, he will get on now, I believe. Try and get a little sleep yourself, Lady Gwendolyn, for you need it sadly, too.”

“I am too happy to be tired,” she said confidently. Nevertheless, when Doctor May was gone, and there was silence in the sick-room, she began to feel drowsy, and presently she was locked in slumber as soft as it was light.

When once Colonel Dacre had taken a turn for the better he mended very fast. But then he was so patient and good, and took his medicine without so much as a wry face. He wanted to get well quickly, for his special license was ready, and he had a notion that Lady Gwendolyn could hardly deny him now. But not a word did he say on the subject, for fear of scaring her away; and she just drifted along with the tide, hardly caring where it landed her, so that it was close to Lawrence Dacre.

One afternoon she had gone out to do some commission, and as she was stepping out of the shop, she found herself suddenly face to face with her sister-in-law, Lady Teignmouth. Pauline held out her hand with an embarrassed smile.

“I declare, it is you, Gwen! What are you doing in town at such a dreadful time of the year?”

“You forget that I might contaminate you,” answered Lady Gwendolyn, refusing the proffered hand, and standing up very straight. “It is a great pity you spoke to me, Pauline, because I know how careful you are never to conceal the slightest thing from my brother, and he will be very angry.”

Pauline laughed—the hollow, artificial laugh that always grated upon Lady Gwendolyn’s nerves.

“Don’t be so very absurd! No woman, with a grain of sense, makes a confidant of her husband. Besides, Reggie is quite coming round, Gwen; he is, indeed!”

“Very kind of him, I am sure,” replied her sister-in-law, with a bitter smile. “Do you know, I feel quite grateful.”

Lady Teignmouth walked along at her side, and lowered her voice to say:

“I dare say you do feel annoyed about it all; but it really was best he should take it as he did, and I have been a perfect model of discretion ever since. Reggie and I get on charmingly nowadays; and just think what a scandal it would have created, supposing we had separated!”

CHAPTER XVI.

GWEN AND PAULINE.

“I see you are not changed, Pauline,” said Lady Gwendolyn; “it was always self with you, and always will be. My sufferings are nothing so long as you run no risk!”

“Oh! but you are not suffering, I am sure,” answered Lady Teignmouth. “You are looking exceedingly well, and handsome, and the whole affair has blown over so comfortably, there’s no reason why you should not resume your proper position in society. I am afraid Reggie won’t let me chaperon you—at least, just yet; but there is Mrs. O’Hara. She is not particular.”

“Possibly; but I am,” returned Lady Gwendolyn, with angry hauteur; “so particular, indeed, that, if Reggie were willing I should go out with you, I should decline the doubtful honor!”

“You are very severe, my dear,” said Lady Teignmouth uneasily; “and yet, I ought not to be annoyed with you, since, in the eyes of the world, I have certainly the best of it!”

“You would be sure to take care of that! But, really, Pauline, you are forgetting that you are a ‘model of discretion,’ nowadays.”

“How?”

“Why, is it prudent to be seen walking with me? If we were to meet any one we knew——”

“But I told you the whole affair had blown over. We should not have returned to England if it had not been for that.”

Lady Gwendolyn turned upon her almost fiercely:

“Then cross the Channel, both of you, as quickly as you can, for you have urged me so far between you that now I don’t care what I do, and I mean to be happy my own way for a few months, even if the whole world follows your and Reggie’s example, and hunts me down afterward. Do you understand? Reggie has cast me off at your bidding, therefore I feel independent of you all.”

“But you won’t do anything dreadful, Gwen?” pleaded Lady Teignmouth. “I am sure Reggie will come round in time, and we shall be comfortable together again.”

“Comfortable together again!” repeated the girl, with an accent of withering scorn. “Fancy my being comfortable with you, or staying under your roof! I really don’t think I am ever likely to fall quite so low as that.”

Lady Teignmouth colored up, and her eyes flashed; but she dared not show resentment. She was in her sister-in-law’s power to a certain extent, for if Lady Gwendolyn chose to insist upon an explanation with Reginald, and laid the facts of the case clearly before him, it was doubtful whether she might not convince the earl of her own innocence and of his wife’s guilt. And then all her pretty scheming would have been worse than useless, since it would only aggravate the original offense in Lord Teignmouth’s eyes.

Consequently Pauline had need to be humble and conciliatory. Her voice was honey-sweet as she said:

“Of course, that must be as you feel, Gwen; but I know it would add greatly to my happiness to have the affair pleasantly settled. I was only saying to Reggie yesterday that Teignmouth would be unendurable without you.”

“You are going to Teignmouth, then?”

“For a little while. Reggie has invited a houseful of people. It will be a dreadful bore having to entertain them all by myself, and you were always so nice and popular, dear; but it can’t be helped, of course—it is the penalty I must pay for my own imprudence.”

“And deceit,” interposed Lady Gwendolyn sternly.

“One was the natural consequence of the other; if I had not been imprudent I should not have had anything to conceal. I am quite aware of my own faults, and really sorry for them; but it would be a dreadful thing to break up Reggie’s house. And then the scandal and misery to him, poor fellow!”

“I am glad you can feel for him—at last,” retorted Lady Gwendolyn. “I presume that my troubles are of no consequence, although they were brought about entirely by your sin.”

“I can’t do more than express my penitence and regret,” answered Lady Teignmouth rather sulkily.

“Well, I suppose it is too late for anything else now,” admitted Lady Gwendolyn contemptuously. “Fortunately, however, I am learning to do without you both. If any harm comes to me, it is a comfort to know that the sin will be at your door.”

“Oh! but no harm will come to you, Gwen, of course. You will marry happily——”

“And then I shall be off your mind, sha’n’t I? But, really, I am wasting my time awfully,” she added abruptly. And, hailing a passing cab, she jumped into it, and, with a careless nod to Pauline, she drew her veil over her face, and leaned back out of sight.

After all, perhaps, although Lady Teignmouth had the best of it in some ways, she might not have been sorry to change with Lady Gwendolyn.

When her cab stopped at the Langham, Lady Gwendolyn got out, and walked up and down for awhile, afraid to enter.

For she had promised to go to Colonel Dacre’s room directly she returned, and she knew that the keen eyes of love would immediately find out her trouble. She could not have borne the most tender questioning just then, and so she lingered until her face was composed, and she could trust her voice and eyes.

Then she went slowly up-stairs, and knocked at Colonel Dacre’s door.

He had left his sick-chamber for the first time, and was reclining on a couch in a pleasant little sitting-room, which Lady Gwendolyn had filled with fresh roses in the morning, that he might receive a fragrant greeting on entering. He looked up languidly as she opened the door; but his hollow eyes brightened at once when he saw who it was, and he held out his thin hand with a smile.

“How long you have been gone, Gwen?”

And he patted the chair near him by way of inviting her to occupy it.

“Are you tired, dear?” he added suddenly, discovering that she was very pale.

“No—that is to say, a little. How do you feel, Lawrence?”

“Delightfully frisky! as if I could jump over the moon. Do you know, I shall be able to travel next week.”

Lady Gwendolyn shook her head.

“Nothing of the kind; don’t talk nonsense, Colonel Dacre. Doctor May says you must not stir for a fortnight.”

“Of course; because he wants to keep me under his thumb as long as he can. Doctor May is a capital fellow; but he must take care of himself.”

“And of you.”

“Pshaw! I polished off nearly a whole grouse for my dinner just now, and I have walked several times across the room. I don’t mind being an invalid for three or four days longer, but after that I mean to take the law into my own hands.”

“Why are you in such a dreadful hurry to leave us?” she asked, with some faint signs of pique.

“I am not going to leave you, Gwen. I am going to take you with me wherever I go for the rest of my life.”

She colored up, and looked at him in a timid, frightened sort of way. He put his hand gently over hers.

“I should be sorry to think you did not wish this, Gwen. But, whether or no, it must be now.”

“Why?”

He kissed her hand almost reverentially before he answered:

“This is a cruelly scandalous world. Do you think I should have allowed you to nurse and tend me with such noble devotion unless I had looked upon you as my future wife?”

“I did no harm, surely.”

“On the contrary, you did an immense deal of good—to me. Only finish your work by giving me the dear right to protect and defend you against the whole world.”

“Shall I need a defender?” she asked, lowering her eyes.

“I hope not; but I flatter myself you will need me, anyhow. Haven’t you discovered how well we suit each other, Gwen?”

“Perhaps. But, oh! Lawrence, tell me truth, I beseech you—and I will trust you altogether now—is there anything that should or ought to prevent our marriage?”

“Before Heaven, no!” he answered emphatically.

“I must believe you, in spite of my eyes and my reason, in spite of my conscience, for I have only one hope in the world, one thought.”

Then she slipped off her seat, hid her head on his breast, and added, in a shrinking whisper:

“If what you told me just now is an untruth, I forbid you to undeceive me ever! You hear? My life is locked up in yours from henceforth; and if the day should come,” she added, more faintly still, “that we ought to part, why, then Heaven will be merciful, perhaps, and let us both die instead.”

And then she writhed, white and shivering, out of his arms.

“Oh! Lawrence, I am afraid!”

“Afraid of what, my love?” he asked tenderly, enfolding her once more, and kissing her lips with all a lover’s fire.

“I am afraid we shall not be allowed to be happy together long; something will part us.”

“Only death, now, my dearest,” he answered back firmly. “Only death!”

CHAPTER XVII.

WHAT HOPE CAN DO.

“Don’t talk to me of tonics!” said Colonel Dacre, a week after his engagement to Lady Gwendolyn. “I don’t believe in them at all. There is a sovereign remedy for ‘all the ills that flesh is heir to’; but it does not come within the doctors’ province, although they take the credit of its cures.”

“What is that?” inquired Lady Gwendolyn, smiling.

“Hope! When I roused from my long stupor that night, and looked straight into your dear eyes, the love and pity there gave me courage to live. Without that I should have fast drifted back into the shadow again, and not tried to struggle against my terrible weakness. But you forget, Gwen, that you have never told me how you heard of my illness.”

“One of the chambermaids was my first informant. She said there was a gentleman ill in the hotel; and when I questioned her, she described you so accurately that I knew at once whom it must be.”

“But where were you then?”

“Here,” answered Lady Gwendolyn, laughing.

“What! in the hotel? But I thought you wrote me that you had left.”

“I did leave for a few hours—just long enough to get my hair dyed golden, and to put myself in deep mourning, when I returned as ‘Miss Mordaunt.’”

“I wonder you weren’t recognized by the servants.”

“None of them had seen me at all plainly. I was very anxious they should not, after my encounter with Mrs. O’Hara, as I did not know what she might say, and so I took my precautions. Besides, the golden hair does alter one a good deal.”

“I knew you at once, Gwen.”

“You looked into my eyes first.”

“Wherever my first glance had fallen it would have been the same thing, Gwen. Indeed, if I had put out my hand in the darkness and touched you, some subtle sense would have told me who it was.”

“‘By the pricking of my thumbs,

Something wicked this way comes.’”

quoted Lady Gwendolyn gaily. “I suppose that is the kind of warning you would have found at your fingers’ ends, Lawrence.”

“I have done with warnings,” he answered more gravely. “They may be a help to you when you don’t want to do a thing; but when you do want they only make you wish for it more. The best way is to follow your inclinations, so long as they are sufficiently moral, and let the rest take care of itself.”

“I don’t know about being the best way; but it is the most pleasant. What is the use of living, if one has to do nothing but struggle,” said Lady Gwendolyn, who found drifting with the tide a happier state of things than struggling against circumstances.

There was a minute’s silence, and then Colonel Dacre looked up from the carpet, which he had been studying with great apparent interest, and observed:

“To-day is Wednesday, is it not?”

“I believe so.”

“How long does it take to buy a dress, Gwen?”

“That depends upon the buyer. If you are fond of shopping it takes several hours; if you dislike shopping as much as I do it only takes a few minutes.”

“A few minutes! Come, that is delightful!” he said cheerily. “But, then, it has to be made, I suppose?”

“Well, as a rule.”

“You are quizzing me, Gwen, I perceive. We always expose ourselves to ridicule when we ask for information.”

“Of course, because you display your ignorance so conspicuously. But tell me what makes you take an interest in these feminine matters, Lawrence?”

“I was calculating that we might easily be married on Tuesday, my love.”

“Really, Lawrence!” she exclaimed, blushing furiously. “I thought you had more common sense.”

“Well, but what need prevent it?”

“A hundred things.”

“Mention one or two.”

“I am not ready, for one thing.”

“You mean as far as clothes go? That is of no consequence, as you can buy whatever you want afterward. You will naturally wish to consult my taste, and, therefore, it will be very convenient to have me on the spot to appeal to at every moment.”

“I should like to see your face of disgust under the infliction,” she said, laughing nervously.

“You are quite welcome to the spectacle. But go on with your reasons, Gwen; we have only had one so far, and you have still ninety-nine in reserve.”

“It would look so odd.”

“My dear child, when you consider how many people do get married, such an ordinary case as ours would not look odd, I assure you. Besides, I thought we had both decided not to mind what people said. Not that people will say anything that need afflict you. Lady Teignmouth is known to be an impracticable person, and very jealous of your beauty; so that when it is reported that neither she nor your brother was present at your wedding, it will be laid to her. Lord Teignmouth and I were always excellent friends; and though I am not a very grand person, still, I do not think he would be supposed to object to the marriage.”

“Of course not. How could he?” said Lady Gwendolyn quickly. “I never dreamed they would find any objection of that sort.”

“What, then?”

“I suppose they must accuse me of having behaved badly in some way to account for Reggie’s desertion.”

“Not at all; they will think it is one of my lady’s caprices. She is cordially disliked by her own sex, because she has a way of making herself so extremely agreeable to their husbands.”

“Like your friend, Mrs. O’Hara,” put in Lady Gwendolyn maliciously.

“I don’t think the two women can be compared in any way. Norah is a thoughtless flirt—Lady Teignmouth is a cold-blooded coquette.”

“Isn’t that a distinction without a difference, Lawrence?”

“I should be sorry to think so, Gwen, since a certain young lady, who is beyond measure dear to my heart, was certainly a thoughtless flirt in days not very long gone by.”

“I didn’t mean any harm,” said Gwendolyn, coloring.

“Exactly; nor did Nora. But Lady Teignmouth means a good deal of harm. She has the most insatiable vanity of any woman I ever knew, and would quite have enjoyed that affair at Turoy as a tribute to her charms, if only it could have been proved that Mr. Belmont committed suicide in despair.”

“Oh! then, you are convinced at last that Mr. Belmont was Lady Teignmouth’s lover, and not mine.”

“Perfectly; for ‘putting that an’ that thegither,’ as the Scotch say, I see the whole case clear before me. Lady Teignmouth meant to make a fool of me—not because I was particularly desirable, but because she looked upon all men as her legitimate prey. When she found that you had saved her the trouble she felt very spiteful, and longed to make a breach between us. I am convinced now that the person I saw at Preston Station was Lady Teignmouth, although she did get into a third-class carriage, and assumed a regular Northern burr on purpose to divert my suspicions. She kept me to luncheon after she had given me your address, because she did not want me to reach Turoy until she was ready to receive me.”

“But I should have fancied you would have been in her way there.”

“No; because she wanted to kill two birds with one stone—get rid of a lover whose ardor was growing troublesome and compromising, and disenchant me. I must say that she is a consummate actress, and managed things very cleverly.”

“Too cleverly, I think,” answered Lady Gwendolyn.

“But you will admit, dearest, that if you go in for that sort of thing you may as well do it nicely.”

“In fact, if you are a rogue at all, you may as well be——”

“A good rogue,” put in Colonel Dacre, laughing.

“I don’t like your morality at all, Lawrence; it is much better to fail in a bad trade.”

“Certainly; but, then, I did not know we were speaking morally. I was discussing the question from a worldly point of view. But go on with your reasons against our speedy marriage—there are still ninety eight to account for.”

“I—I—think I am afraid of you, Lawrence,” answered Lady Gwendolyn, looking down.

“Go on; that’s a reason with a reason, and, therefore, needs explaining.”

“I can’t explain it. I know I oughtn’t to be; and that you are one of those men who may be trusted; that I shall still keep your affection even when my beauty is waning. Still, when I picture the long future that may be before us, I get frightened.”

“Then you do not love me, Gwen. When I remember that we may have a long future I thrill with joy—because we shall be together always—unless death should part us. This is just what I have prayed and longed for, and I found myself getting terribly depressed the other day because I was twelve years older than you, and might have to leave you a little while alone in the world.”

His accent and expression showed such deep sincerity, such a passion of yearning love, that, although Lady Gwendolyn was rather chary of her caresses as a rule, thinking she had already made too many concessions, she bent down now, and laid her fresh, cool cheek against his hand.

“Don’t, darling,” he said diffidently. “You pain me.”

“Why not let me be a little humble, Lawrence? Balzac says that you can never be sure you have really won a woman’s love until she is on her knees before you.”

“I think I could bear to see you there if it had such a meaning.”

She slipped down, blushing, and looked up at him with such a divine smile, such true love-light in her eyes, that he would have been less than human if he had not strained her to his heart, while he murmured again and again that he loved her better than life, next to honor, and after God.

Still, when he released her, he said, with comical persistence:

“Now for the ninety-seventh, Gwen?”

“I am tired of giving you reasons, you dispose of them so summarily.”

“Because they are so flimsy, and unsubstantial. And, seriously, darling, it is right we should be married at once. You stand quite alone—you are beautiful enough to make other women your enemies by simply unveiling your face. And you will surely be very lonely in lodgings.”

“Am I to go into lodgings, then?”

“I am sorry to say you ought. There can be no excuse for your remaining here, now that I am so much stronger.”

Lady Gwendolyn looked exceedingly grave.

“It seems very difficult to be single comfortably,” she said.

“Yes, there the world is good enough to help us poor lovers. Some of you would hesitate half your life away if you did not occasionally feel the need of masculine aid and intervention.”

“I wish I were strong-minded, then.”

“Thank goodness, you are not! Only in that case I should not be pleading to you now, as there is nothing earthly of which I have a greater horror than a woman who raves about her rights, and lectures publicly on things she does not half understand.”

“When I lecture I’ll get you to coach me beforehand,” said Lady Gwendolyn saucily. “Of course I should not like to be deprived of my rights any more than the rest.”

“Do you know what they are?”

“I suppose I do. Let me see, I have a right to your entire affection.”

“Granted. What next?”

She hesitated a long time, and then laughed out gaily.

“I really don’t know. I expect if I had your entire affection there would not be any need to make any minor claims, unless it were for increased pin-money; and you have such ridiculous notions upon that subject I am only afraid of being too rich.”

“Then we have settled that question. How about the other?”

“What other?” she asked innocently.

“Don’t be foolish, child. You seem to take a pleasure in tormenting me.”

Lady Gwendolyn hung down her head, and became as red as a rose. She understood now.

“But I really don’t think there is any such great hurry, Lawrence,” she said, still disposed to capitulate.

“And I really think I have sufficiently proved that there is something to hurry about,” was the cool reply.

Her arguments failing to convince, Lady Gwendolyn took refuge in a pout. This is a woman’s last refuge when she finds her position is weak, and is a sure index of faltering resolution.

“You are very unreasonable, Lawrence, and abominably arbitrary. Because you want a thing it must needs be done.”

“If the thing be right.”

“But your wishing it seems to make it right, in your own eyes,” she answered petulantly.

“You are entirely mistaken there, Gwen. I love you so tenderly that if I wished anything that would harm you in your reputation, your self-respect, in any way, in fact, I would bite my tongue in twain before I would advocate it by a single word. But you ought to marry before people find out that you have been here with me. Don’t you understand?”

“I thought nothing could be said, as this is a hotel——”

“I am not sure that does not aggravate the case, by rendering it more conspicuous.”

“You turn and twist every argument I bring forward so as to make it serve your cause,” she said resentfully. “It is no use my trying to have an opinion of my own.”

“That is just what I am trying to persuade you, Gwen,” he said, drawing her to him in spite of her struggles. “You shall have your own way as much as is good for you after we are married; but now I want mine. Don’t be so impracticable, darling,” he added, in his coaxing voice. “You know what I demand is ‘just, expedient, and right.’”

“I know it is very tiresome to be hurried,” she said, by way of showing that she had still a few objections in reserve.

“But you sha’n’t be hurried, dearest. Listen to my program. This evening you will go to Mrs. Venable, in Park Lane.”

“How do you know she will receive me?”

“I have already asked her the question, and received a satisfactory reply,” said Colonel Dacre quietly. “I never let the grass grow under my feet when I have work to do that should be done quickly.”

“But what made you think of Mrs. Venable?”

“For two or three reasons. As your former governess I thought she would be a suitable person. And then I knew you liked her, and would prefer to be married from her house.”

“Then I should have to stay there a fortnight,” said Lady Gwendolyn, with a little air of triumph, for she thought she was going to demolish the gallant colonel’s program.

“Not at all. There is nothing to prevent our being married to-morrow, if you like.”

“I thought you were obliged to remain a certain time in a place.”

“I have a special license, Gwen, and, moreover, we have both been more than the required length of time in this parish.”

“Oh!” she said rather dubiously. “You have arranged everything, then?”

“Of course. Would you mind trying on your wedding-ring, to make sure it fits?”

Gwendolyn’s eyes flashed, and her color rose. But when he stooped down and kissed her, she suddenly laid her hand on his breast and burst into tears.

“I begin to think you don’t love me a bit, Gwen,” he said, caressing her tenderly; “or that you look upon me as a kind of ogre, who is not to be trusted with a woman’s happiness.”

“You know it isn’t that.”

“Then what is it?”

“Marriage is a great change, and a great risk,” she stammered out at last.

“Of course it is a change, dear love; but it cannot be any risk when you have a man of honor to deal with, and know yourself to be truly valued and beloved.”

“Yes,” she said desperately; “but I am afraid I shall often trouble about that lady I saw at Borton Hall.”

Colonel Dacre changed color visibly.

“I thought you had promised me never to think about or mention her again, Gwen? I do solemnly swear over again that no woman living, excepting yourself, can ever say that I have asked her to be my wife. I had a good many foolish fancies as a lad, but none of them went as far as that.”

“Was she one of your foolish fancies?” inquired Lady Gwendolyn hesitatingly.

“I don’t know whom you mean by she, but I can answer for it that my ‘foolish fancies’ are all married, and the mothers of families by this time.”

“Then you haven’t had any lately?” she asked, with timid but anxious earnestness.

“Not for the last ten years, on my word.”

“And the lady at Borton——” she persisted.

“Was a myth, or an impostor, and need not trouble you for a moment.”

“I thought you said she was probably a madwoman who had delusions?” observed Lady Gwendolyn, who appeared to have stored up carefully the lightest word her lover had spoken on the subject.

“Did I say that?” he returned, slightly embarrassed. “Well, it may be so; and all the better if it were, as she would not be likely to trouble you again.”

“Will she now, do you suppose?”

“No, my love; I’ll take care about that, when once you are in my charge. Besides, you may be sure that if she is not right in her mind, she has been put under confinement by this time.”

“It is to be hoped so, because—don’t be angry with me, Lawrence—but if she were to claim you after we were married, I should not feel that I ought to stay with you a minute longer.”

“Then the ravings of a maniac would drive you out of your home, even after we had been all in all to each other; and you ought to have learned to trust me.”

“I am afraid it would. To take another woman’s place would be such a terrible wrong. Indeed, I don’t think I ought to marry you at all, only—only I am so wicked, so horrible. I would rather be your wife a little while than never at all. And you swear that you are free?”

“I swear it!” he answered solemnly and firmly.

“Then I won’t trouble about all these horrors any more. After all, any man might be married secretly—who is to know? And you always must trust to his word, mustn’t you? If I had never seen that woman at Borton Hall, it would not have occurred to me to ask the question. I should have made so sure it was all right.”

“And it is all right now, you foolish child. Do I look like a malefactor and a scoundrel?”

“No; you look very nice,” Lady Gwendolyn admitted, with a blush.

“But not nice enough to be trusted, it seems. However, I’ll teach you that later, my love; en attendant, you may as well fix our wedding-day.”

“This day three months,” said Lady Gwendolyn demurely; “unless you think that too soon.”

“You little witch! If you don’t take care I will insist upon its taking place in three days!” retorted Colonel Dacre.

“But I am not obliged to obey.”

“Oh! I shall use coercive measures. But seriously, very seriously, Gwen, you are paining me by all these objections. If you don’t love me, leave me. Heaven knows I do not want an unwilling wife; but if you pretend to care for me, act up to your profession. I have put you to the test, and if you fail me, I shall get away out of the country as fast as I can, and try and forget the woman who has spoiled my whole life. I have made all my arrangements to leave England on Wednesday. Will you come with me or not? I warn you fairly that I am not poor spirited enough ever to give you another chance of fooling me. If once I leave you behind, we shall never meet again on this side of the grave.”

His decided tone startled Gwendolyn. She saw she had found a lover at last who would not be played fast and loose with, and she began to respect Colonel Dacre as much as she had loved him.

To have parted with him forever would have broken her heart outright, and as she could only keep him one way, she must make the sacrifice he demanded.

To do Lady Gwendolyn justice, she was not wont to give grudgingly when she did give. So that having decided to accord what he asked, she made the gift sweeter by the grace with which she gave. All his long life Colonel Dacre would remember the smile that lighted up her blushing face as she put her hand into his, and murmured:

“I will marry you when you like, Lawrence, and trust you whatever betide.”

If Lady Gwendolyn had kept the second promise as she kept the first, how much sorrow it would have saved them both.

CHAPTER XVIII.

A HAPPY BRIDE.

Mrs. Venable was a very kind, motherly woman, but there was one inconvenience—in sojourning with a person who knew her antecedents so well—her visitor found.

Colonel Dacre had just hinted at some misunderstanding between Lord Teignmouth and Lady Gwendolyn, and allowed Mrs. Venable to lay it all to the countess; but, of course, knowing how much attached the brother and sister had once been, Mrs. Venable did feel a little curious as to the cause of their breach, and tried hard to find it out without actually putting the question.

Lady Gwendolyn got out of the traps laid for her gallantly, but she began to think Mrs. Venable was playing into her lover’s hand. She would not have put off her wedding-day now on any account.

Colonel Dacre was fully occupied in the intervening days. He had to run down to Borton Hall to attend to some last arrangements there, and this day seemed so terribly long to Lady Gwendolyn that it was quite a revelation to her. It was wonderful happiness to remember that soon they never need be parted, and she would belong altogether to him.

The wedding was to be a very quiet one. Under the circumstances this was very desirable, and, fortunately, it chimed in with the tastes and feelings of both the fiancés.

Lady Gwendolyn was to have two bridesmaids—for form’s sake—one, the Honorable Beatrice Ponsonby, a tried and true friend, of whom Colonel Dacre approved cordially; and the other, Mrs. Venable’s daughter, a pretty child of six years old. The ceremony was to take place at ten o’clock. After that they were to breakfast quietly in Park Lane, then catch the one-o’clock train for Dover, and cross over to Calais at night.

Colonel Dacre had made arrangements to remain abroad until the spring, and then they would return home, and, after spending about a month in town, take up their residence at Borton Hall. This was the program they had drawn up between them, and, unless anything unforeseen should occur to disturb it, it promised exceedingly well.

There was no reason why they should keep away from Borton. Lady Gwendolyn was not ashamed to face her brother or his wife, and Colonel Dacre looked forward to vindicating his darling, and claiming for her the respect and homage that were her due.

If Lady Teignmouth had dared to traduce her—let her beware. He was not bound to spare Reginald, although they had once been friends. His wife’s honor would always be far dearer to him than aught else besides.

On Tuesday evening Colonel Dacre dined in Park Lane, and was gratified to find that Mrs. Venable had the tact to leave the drawing-room for them after dessert.

“My husband likes to have me while he is smoking his cigar, as he is away all day,” was the apology she made, as she took her departure, and the lovers could not help laughing happily in each other’s faces, it seemed so very unnecessary.

Colonel Dacre possessed himself of half Lady Gwendolyn’s couch, and did not seem to notice that it was a tight fit for two.

“Well, my darling,” he said, as he drew her head down on to his breast; “you don’t ask me if everything is ready.”

“With a person of your promptitude and energy such a question is superfluous,” she returned, smiling up at him from the safe shelter which would be hers by divine right on the morrow.

“I suppose you are dreadfully miserable?” he said softly.

“Dreadfully,” she answered, longing to torment him a little, and yet feeling as if she could not. “How do I look?”

“More beautiful than ever,” he answered rapturously.

“Surely my eyes are red with crying.”

He bent down so anxiously to examine them, that she laughed outright.

“Don’t be a goose!” she added sweetly. “I wouldn’t marry you if they were.”

“You are such a will-o’-the-wisp, Gwen. I sha’n’t feel safe until eleven o’clock to-morrow, and so I tell you fairly.”

“But you are not obliged to be safe then,” she retorted saucily. “Wives do run away from their husbands occasionally.”

“If you ever should, as you value your life, go alone,” he answered, with sudden fierceness; and then he cooled down as quickly, and said he had not forgotten her old tricks, “there was nothing she loved better than to tease.”

“Yes; but what did you mean about my going alone?” she asked, so simply that he felt ashamed to have doubted this innocent child, even for a moment, and hastened to change the subject by speaking of his arrangements for her comfort on the morrow.

“Now, Lawrence,” she said at last, “I am not going to be carried about like a piece of rare china, in cotton wool. I am not the least delicate, and I should enjoy roughing it beyond measure, on your arm. Do let us travel sensibly, and mix with people as we go along. I want variety—even adventure—and I mean to dine at the tables d’hôte, instead of in solitary state in our own salon.”

“Under those circumstances you are likely to have the kind of adventure you will hardly care for,” he answered gravely.

“Not under your protection? With that big mustache of yours you look quite terrible, I assure you; and I often think I should be dreadfully afraid of you if I cared for you less.”

“And yet ‘perfect love casteth out fear,’ Gwen.”

“Exactly; I am not afraid of you now, excepting so far as is proper and expedient under the circumstances.”

He looked a little hurt.

“It can’t be proper and expedient in the slightest degree under any circumstances.”

“Well, I mean I should be afraid to flirt.”

“Surely you would find a better reason than that for refraining.”

“Oh, dear, you are so severely literal, Lawrence!”

“‘I must speak by the card or equivocation will undo me,’ as Shakespeare says somewhere.”

And then she pulled down his head, and whispered in his ear so softly:

“You dear old goose! Haven’t you found out yet that I love you?”

Colonel Dacre’s answer is not worth recording; but it was very expressive and impressive, for Lady Gwendolyn looked very red after it, and was not sorry to hide her confusion on his breast, though, perhaps, she was hardly woman enough yet to understand the mighty absorbing passion she had inspired.

At ten o’clock precisely Colonel Dacre loosened his hold on her and said gently:

“Now, my darling, you must go to bed. To-morrow will be a fatiguing day for you, and I shall want to see a few roses at starting. Oh! Gwen, when I think what to-morrow is to be, it seems to me that I must be dreaming. All my own—my very own, ‘to love and to cherish till death us do part.’ It is too much happiness! Give me one kiss—the first I have ever had from you, sweetest—to make it all seem real.”

“No,” she answered shyly, and trembling; “I have always vowed that my husband should have my first kiss.”

“Then I am to wait till to-morrow?”

“Yes, Lawrence.”

“Heaven bless you, my dear life!” he murmured; then kissed both the hands she extended to him, and hurried off.

It seemed a dreadful parting to him, and yet it was only for twelve hours.

Lady Gwendolyn could hardly realize that she was going to be married when she woke in the morning. But when her new maid appeared, her head just visible under an avalanche of white drapery, she began to think it was probable, and that she had better get up at once, and adorn herself to please her master’s eye.

Her master!

Proud as she was, naturally, the term did not humiliate her in connection with Lawrence. Let a woman be ever so haughty, she is ready to be the slave of the man she loves.

Miss Ponsonby arrived in time to arrange the wreath and veil, and was so charmed with the effect that she said, with honest admiration:

“It is a shame of you to have such a quiet wedding, Gwendolyn. I should like all London to see and approve.”

“And I am so altered,” answered the bride, with a tender blush and smile, “that I don’t care for any one’s admiration now except Lawrence’s.”

“You are civil, my dear, certainly,” laughed the Honorable Beatrice.

“Oh! I didn’t mean you, of course, dear. I am glad of your approval; but, then, I always make sure of that.”

“And of somebody else’s, too, I fancy.”

Lady Gwendolyn put her arms round her friend’s neck with the impulsiveness that is always so attractive.

“Beatrice,” she said, with tears of happiness trembling on her black lashes, “I love Lawrence with all my heart, and I would rather be his wife than queen of twenty kingdoms!”

Then she glanced at the clock, and, seeing it wanted only a quarter to ten, began to mold on her gloves.

The carriage drove up just as she had finished, and, taking her bouquet from the maid, she went down-stairs with the sun shining full on her as she went, and yet unable to find a flaw in her beauty or a shadow in her happy eyes.

Colonel Dacre and his best man were standing at the altar as Lady Gwendolyn entered the church on the arm of Lord Denby, Miss Ponsonby’s father, and a very old friend of the St. Maur family. A lovely light and color went over her face as she saw him, and met the glance of loving admiration that welcomed her to his side.

Then she forgot to realize herself as she stood by the steady figure, and listened to the words of the marriage service. She began to understand what a terrible chain matrimony must be when people joined hands without joining hearts; and a thrill of thankfulness ran through her, remembering what perfect union subsisted between herself and her husband.

For he was her husband now. The priest had joined their hands, and had lifted his voice to say: “Those whom God has joined let no man put asunder.”

The warm, firm pressure of Lawrence’s fingers seemed to testify that he was well able to keep what he had won, and the consciousness of his strength soothed and comforted Lady Gwendolyn as nothing else could have done.

She liked his gravity, too, for it showed how thoroughly he felt with her, and realized the deeper and holier meaning of their marriage. There was quite a gathering in the church by the time the ceremony was over; but neither bride nor bridegroom knew much about it. Lady Gwendolyn signed her maiden name for the last time, and then they stepped out into the sunshine together.

Happy, beautiful, and young, the world seemed a lovely place to these two; and they felt as if they had one smile, as well as one heart, between them, as each looked into the other’s eyes, and saw reflected there the happiness of his and her heart.

There was not much time to spare when they got back to Park Lane; but Lord Denby made a pretty little speech during the breakfast, which sounded as if it had been inspired by Veuve Clicquot’s best champagne, as it was so frothily graceful; then Colonel Dacre looked at the clock and touched his wife’s arm.

“I am afraid we shall miss our train, Gwen, if we don’t start soon.”

She rose directly, and in a very short time returned in a traveling-dress, which was of brown cashmere, trimmed with silk of a darker shade.

Lady Gwendolyn was not one of those brides who like to advertise themselves. To steal quietly through the crowd, unrecognized and unobserved, was all she asked; and she knew her husband’s refined tastes would be offended, as well as her own, by any display. But that he approved of the brown cashmere, and the quiet, but elegant, little hat of the same color, was evident from his eyes as he took a survey of her dainty figure ere he handed her into the carriage.

On their way to the station Colonel Dacre held his wife’s hand; but he did not attempt any further demonstration, and she was thankful for the self-denial, which gave her time to recover a little from the confusion of her position.

But once in the coupé he had engaged, and on their way to Dover, all his pent-up passion seemed to break forth, and he crushed her against his breast as he murmured:

“Now for my kiss—the one you have kept back for your happy husband, love.”

And as she shyly approached her lips to his it seemed to both as if their very souls mingled in that long, glad, passionate embrace.

CHAPTER XIX.

THE FIRST CLOUD.

“I declare, we have been six months abroad, and not yet come across a single person we know,” said Lady Gwendolyn to her husband one morning. “I wonder how it is?”

“Well, we haven’t tried to come across people we know, for one thing.”

“But it might easily have happened accidentally.”

“Don’t let us boast,” Colonel Dacre returned, as he passed his hand through her arm. “A thing always happens directly you begin to congratulate yourself upon having escaped it.”

“Then I won’t say another word.”

“Come for a walk instead,” he said. “You have spoiled me so, Gwen, that I can’t enjoy my cigar unless you are hanging about me.”

“Oh! Lawrence, I am sure I never hang about you.”

“What do you do, then?”

“I walk by your side.”

“Like a discreet British maiden. Do you know you have got your part very perfect, considering the short time you have had to learn it?”

“I don’t call six months a short time.”

“It has seemed so to me—perhaps, because I have been so happy. I am afraid you have been dreadfully bored, Gwen, as it has passed so slowly.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Lawrence!”

“But, my dear love, you forced me reluctantly to draw that inference.”

Lady Gwendolyn pouted, and Colonel Dacre, being still his wife’s lover, as men of his constant nature continue to be all their lives, stooped his tall head and kissed the sweet, red mouth.

“Now, put on your hat,” he said, “and we will go for a little stroll. I am quite beginning to like this free-and-easy sort of life, Gwen. Are not you?”

“I don’t seem to mind much where we are so that we are together. I have given up the world and its vanities——”

“All for love?”

“All for love,” she repeated. “I couldn’t have a better reason, surely.”

“I am quite satisfied with it, if that is what you mean. But be quick and dress, or the beauty of the day will be over; and, mind you, wrap up well.”

She came back presently in velvet and furs, with a pretty, frosty bloom on her round cheeks; and as Colonel Dacre offered her his arm, he said proudly to himself that there wasn’t a woman in France who could come up to his darling. And his darling was quite aware that she was looking her best, and thoroughly enjoyed the respectful admiration she excited, not for its own sake, but because she liked Lawrence to feel that she was appreciated.

They walked up the center avenue of the Tuileries, and then made their way down the Rue Royale to the boulevards, which looked very gay this bright morning.

Then, walking briskly back again, they paid a visit to the pastry-cook at the corner of the Rue Castiglione, and lunched off oyster patties and babas, finishing up with the tiniest glass of curaçoa, as a suitable defense against the cold.

Lady Gwendolyn was arranging her veil after this moderate but dainty refection, when a very magnificent dame rustled into the shop, and said, in abominable French, which, however, she seemed delighted to air:

“Donnez moi oon patty, mademoiselle, et dépêche parceque je suis en hâte.”

This pastry-cook being much affected by the English, mademoiselle was accustomed to this sort of thing, and did not even smile as she handed madame her pâté out of the hot safe in the center of the shop, and placed a chair for her beside one of the little marble tables.

Lady Gwendolyn glanced furtively at the face belonging to this voice, and then made her way toward the door, keeping as far as possible from the neighborhood of the newcomer, so as not to attract her attention.

But Colonel Dacre, who had noticed nothing, turned round from examining some bonbons in the window, and, seeing her close to the door, called out:

“Wait a moment, Gwen, I haven’t paid.”

The lady at the marble table looked up then, and by simply catching Colonel Dacre’s eye, explained Lady Gwendolyn’s little ruse.

“What, you, Norah?” he said, with evident pleasure, as he extended his hand. “What brought you to Paris?”

“Well, money; but I forget how much,” she answered, with her old vivacity, although he thought her much thinner and paler than when they met last. “I am getting so tired of England, of everybody, and everything. Is that your wife who has just left the shop so precipitately?” she concluded, with some abruptness.

“She has just gone out, certainly.”

“To avoid me? You need not deny it, Lawrence, it is very natural she should. However, I have something she ought, in justice, to see. Will you tell me where you are staying?”

“At the Hotel d’Albion, close by. If you will tell me where you are, Norah, I will call upon you to-morrow, and take charge of anything you may have for her.”

“Thank you, that will be best,” she answered. “Don’t let me keep you from Lady Gwendolyn. I am at the Grand Hotel, number forty three; but don’t come before noon. I sleep so wretchedly nowadays, that I am glad to rest in the morning. If Lady Gwendolyn minds your coming, write me a line instead, and I shall understand. I think if I had a husband I cared for I should be awfully jealous.”

“Not if he gave you no cause, I hope.”

“Perhaps. But do go. I wouldn’t for the world add to my offenses in your wife’s eyes by exposing her to annoyance. She is much too handsome to be a minute alone in the streets of Paris.”

“True,” he said, and hurried off.

Lady Gwendolyn was standing at a book-shop waiting for him, and put her arm into his without a word. Neither did he make any remark. He thought it best not to speak of Mrs. O’Hara, until he had heard what she had to say on the morrow. Lady Gwendolyn was unusually grave and quiet for the rest of the day, and if he happened to raise his eyes suddenly he caught a very wistful look of the dark eyes; but he bided his time, and still said nothing.

That night when Lady Gwendolyn fancied that her husband was asleep she cried softly to herself, for the string of old, sad memories in her heart had been too much for her, and she wondered fearfully if this woman had come to take her husband from her as she had taken Percy Gray from poor Lady Maria.

“She is tired, poor child!” he said to himself; and, leaving word with her maid that she was not to rise a moment earlier than she felt inclined, on his account, as he was going for a walk, he amused himself with a morning visit to the Palais Royale.

Returning about ten o’clock, he was met at the door of the salon by Phœbe, who said that her mistress begged him to excuse her, as she had a tiresome headache, and would lie down for another hour. This was the first time Colonel Dacre had been called upon to breakfast without the fair fresh face of his spouse near him at table, and an expression of disappointment came into his gray eyes.

Nevertheless, he said with admirable self-abnegation:

“Tell your mistress not to get up on any account, if she feels better in bed. But I suppose I shall be able to see her before I go out?”

“My lady desired particularly that she might not be disturbed, sir. She said she thought she should be well enough to take a drive in the afternoon if she kept quiet for the next few hours.”

“Oh, very well!” answered Colonel Dacre. And he might have been unreasonable; but somehow he felt snubbed. “What has her ladyship taken, Phœbe?”

“A strong cup of tea, sir; that was all she would have.”

And the girl, who was already attached to her young mistress, looked quite distressed. Colonel Dacre was obliged to assume a tranquillity he did not feel to reassure her.

“Rest is sure to do her more good than anything, Phœbe. Be sure and tell her ladyship when she rings for you that I was obliged to go out this morning; but shall hope to see her at luncheon time.”

Phœbe bowed, and left the room. Then Colonel Dacre swallowed a cup of coffee, ate part of a roll, and then, telling the waiter to get him a cab, prepared for his visit to Mrs. O’Hara.

He found his old friend reclining on a sofa in an exquisite peignoir of pale blue cashmere, trimmed with lace, while a coquettish little cap rested on the top of her brown hair. She held out to him her jeweled hand languidly.

“I am so glad to see you, Lawrence. How is your wife?”

“She is rather tired this morning.”

“I hope that is all.”

“I hope so, too. She is not delicate, naturally, neither is she very strong, and we have been walking more than she is accustomed to do since we came to Paris.”

“How long have you been here?”

“Rather more than a week?”

“You are on your way to England, I suppose?”

“I believe so; but we have scarcely decided yet.”

“I presume you would hurry home if anything happened to your uncle, Sir Lawrence?”

“Naturally. But we heard from him just before we left Biarritz, and he then said that he was remarkably well, so that I do not anticipate a sudden recall.”

Mrs. O’Hara had a letter in her hand; but she put it down on the table, and lifted those wonderful Irish eyes of hers to his face.

“Lawrence,” she said quietly, “will you answer me one question?”

“Nay, a dozen, if I can, Norah.”

“One will be enough. Has the accusation I made against Lady Gwendolyn that day at the ‘Langham’ ever troubled you in the slightest degree?”

He reflected before he answered:

“I don’t think it has. I have such full faith in my wife, you see.”

“Still, you know me well enough to understand that I should not make a statement of this sort unless I believed it to be true.”

“No; but we are all liable to error, Norah.”

“And you may as well add that a person of my impulsive temper is doubly liable. I certainly did think that Lady Gwendolyn had been the cause of my poor brother’s death, and had destroyed him by her cruel coquetries; and, as I am not in the habit of bridling my tongue, or disguising my feelings, I told her plainly what I thought. But since then I have discovered my mistake.”

“Go on,” he said eagerly.

She pointed to the letter on the table.

“Read that,” she said, “and it will save my breath. You will see by the signature that it was written by my poor brother himself, and is dated the second of August.”

“The day before his death?”

“Exactly. It is in pencil, as you will perceive, but is quite legible, and has the ‘Dragon, Turoy, Westmoreland,’ printed in colors on the paper.”

“Yes, I see. The landlord of the ‘Dragon,’ who is quite the gentleman in his way, must have lent it to him. I remember that he affected all those little refinements.”

“Very well, now read it through, and tell me what you make of it.”

“Would you mind telling me, first of all, to whom this letter was written?”

“To a Miss Pindar—a relation of my mother’s, who brought us up when our parents died. Poor George, with all his faults, was very much attached to her, and always kept her au courant as to his movements. She was his favorite of us two, and I know she scraped and saved in order to send him money for his pleasures. But he did mean to make it all up to her,” added Mrs. O’Hara. “I saw the letter he wrote to Miss Pindar directly he came into his property.”

It occurred to Colonel Dacre that promises did not cost much, but he refrained from any hint to this effect, seeing how much it comforted Norah to accredit her brother with good intentions.

CHAPTER XX.

LOVED AND LOST.

“Will you read the letter aloud?” added Mrs. O’Hara, as he was turning it over, and he began at once:

“My Dear Aunt——” [He always called her “aunt,” put in Norah, parenthetically.] “A more miserable man than I does not exist. Lady Teignmouth has thrown me over, as you warned me that she would when it suited her purpose; you know how desperately I loved her; you also know how she has kept me dangling at her skirts all these years, luring me on to destruction with her sweet, false eyes. Life is nothing to me without her, and, though she has sworn so often that she loved me, she laughed me to scorn when I suggested that she and I might be happy together in another country. You will say all this is very wrong, aunt. Pauline is another man’s wife; but my only excuse is that the first time we met I believed her to be free, and she did not undeceive me, although she must have seen that I was badly smitten, and ready to make a dolt of myself at her bidding. Now it has gone so far that I could not draw back if I would, and I would not if I could. You will scarcely understand such mad infatuation, but I am not the only man who has preferred to put an end to his existence rather than live without the woman he loved. I am to meet Pauline to-night, and with a few words from her lips my fate will be decided. When this reaches you I may be beyond the reach of everything but your prayers, but I know that even if the whole world condemn me, you will always—always have a kind word, and a kind thought, for the boy you reared, although he died a guilty, despairing man.

George Belmont.

“Turoy, 2d August, 19—.”

“You see that the poor, unhappy fellow took his own life in his despair,” said Norah, wiping her eyes furtively. “He always spoke to me very admiringly of Lady Teignmouth, but I had no idea that he cared for her like that, or I would have saved him, somehow.”

“Do you intend to make any use of this letter?” inquired Colonel Dacre quietly.

“No; I have had enough of revenge for the present. If Lady Teignmouth were to come in my way, I should probably tax her with her deceit and perfidy, because, you know, I never can keep things in; but we are not likely to meet, and meanwhile you may have the letter if you will promise to take care of it that I may have it for reference later, if required.”

This Colonel Dacre readily guaranteed, and then he turned to Mrs. O’Hara, and said:

“And now about yourself, Norah? What are you doing here?”

“Nothing in particular.”

“I heard you were going to be married to a Russian prince.”

She colored furiously.

“Who told you that?”

“Some fellow we met at Nice, but I can’t for the life of me remember his name. I wouldn’t believe it, but Gwen said it was just the sort of thing you would do.”

“Why?” she inquired sharply, keeping her face averted as she spoke.

“Well, she thought you would not care for a quiet, humdrum life in England.”

A gleam of fierce scorn came into Norah’s violet eyes, and then flashed out again, leaving them dim as with unshed tears.

“Whatever I might have cared for I am not likely to get.”

Her tone was sad, her face so wistful, Colonel Dacre forgot her bad accent, and said with earnest sympathy:

“Anyhow, don’t make a mull of your life, Norah, in a fit of the blues. There is no reason why you shouldn’t be happy.”

“None whatever,” she replied, with a forced laugh.

“Then it is true about the Russian prince?”

“Come, Lawrence, you have quite enough to do to attend to your domestic duties!” she retorted gaily. “Go home and show that letter to your wife—and—don’t meddle in my affairs. No man can serve two masters, you know.”

“Still, I think he might serve his friend without being in the least degree disloyal to his wife.”

“Perhaps, I really don’t know—but I fancy the interest of the two would clash occasionally. However, I am not going to try the experiment. But your wife will be wondering what has become of you. Good-by, Lawrence;” and she held out her hand to him with a softened air. “I should like you to tell Lady Gwendolyn from me, if you thought she would care for the confession, that I am very sorry to have misjudged her.”

“I know she will be pleased to hear that you have found out your mistake.”

“Then tell her by all means, and good-by once more.”

He kissed her hand affectionately, and was moving toward the door, when she called him back to say, with a flash of her old humor:

“A fellow I met at Nice told me that ere long there might be an heir to Borton Hall. Is it true?”

“Tell me about the Russian prince first. Is that true?”

“Yes,” she said, hanging her head a little.

“So is the other, then.”

She nodded to him benevolently, but there were tears still in her eyes, and he seemed to see only them as he turned for one last look at his old friend’s widow ere she disappeared out of his life forever.

Lady Gwendolyn was reading in the salon as her husband entered, but, instead of greeting him with a smile, according to her wont, she went on with her paper, and did not even glance his way. He glided behind her, placed his hands round her slender throat, and drew her head back on his breast.

“Well, Gwen,” he said, trying to look into her eyes. “What is it, my love?”

“Nothing,” she answered, with an air of assumed indifference. “I had a bad headache this morning.”

“No wonder, as you cried yourself to sleep.”

She started violently.

“How do you know?”

“Through my eyes and my ears, Gwen.”

She lowered her long lashes, and her lips quivered.

“Well,” he added presently, “I am waiting to know what all this means.”

“It is nothing of the least consequence.”

“Pardon me, Gwen, anything that causes you tears must be of the greatest possible consequence to me.”

“Oh! women cry for nothing, you know.”

“Some may, but you do not, Gwen. I have not seen a tear in your eye, until last night, ever since our marriage.”

“I was so happy,” she sighed.

“And you mean to infer that you are no longer so?”

She was silent.

He sat down beside her on the couch, and put his arm about her waist.

“Gwen,” he said, very gravely, “we are husband and wife now, and a difference between us would be a terrible thing. Lovers’ quarrels are light things, and do to laugh over afterward; but if you are angry with me, Gwen, it can be no laughable matter. I have too much faith in your love to believe that you would blame me for nothing, and condemn me unheard, especially as you promised on our wedding-day that you would never keep anything from me.”

“Have you kept all your promises?” she asked, half sadly, half resentfully.

“I hope so, Gwen. If not, you have only to remind me how and when I have failed to find me eager to atone.”

“You promised,” she sobbed out, “to uphold me always.”

“And have I not done so?”

“No.”

“Do speak out, Gwen; you are torturing me,” he complained. “To be accused of a want of loyalty to my wife and not to be able to defend myself at once is terrible. What do you mean?”

“You spoke to Mrs. O’Hara yesterday, although you know her to be my enemy, and I am sure you have been to see her this morning,” she blurted out, at last, half ashamed, half afraid, and yet resolute withal.

“That is perfectly true as far as it goes,” replied Colonel Dacre gravely. “I did speak to Mrs. O’Hara yesterday; it would have been very difficult to pass a woman I had known so many years without some sign of recognition; I also went to call upon her this morning, at her special request.”

Then he briefly gave her a summary of his interview with Norah, and laid the letter George Belmont had written to Miss Pindar in Lady Gwendolyn’s lap.

“Read that,” he said, rather coldly. “You seem so ready to suspect me, Gwen, I am glad to be able to give you proofs that I am not deceiving you.”

“Oh, Lawrence!” she said reproachfully; and she had an impulse to put back the letter, saying she required no confirmation of his words, but curiosity checked the generous movement, and she opened and read it instead.

Her face lightened as she perused these lines, which seemed almost like a message from the grave, and when she had finished she said eagerly:

“Why didn’t Miss Pindar produce this letter before?”

“Because she knew nothing of the post-mortem examination, and the suspicious circumstances of his death. She lives in a quiet country place, and seldom sees a newspaper; and when Mrs. O’Hara wrote to say that her brother was dead, Miss Pindar was thankful to let well alone—even tried to persuade herself that he had died by the visitation of God, after all, and not by his own hand.”

“But Mrs. O’Hara knew that I had been unjustly suspected, and should have taken care to exonerate me as quickly as possible.”

“She has only had the letter in her possession for a month, she told me, and did not know of its existence before. She said she meant to send it to Borton Hall directly she heard of our return there; but our chance meeting yesterday has saved her the trouble.”

“And where is she going now?”

“Well, she is going to be married—if that is an answer to your question.”

“To whom?” inquired Lady Gwendolyn, her eyes sparkling. “Any one I know?”

“That I can’t tell you; but it is a Russian prince.”

“Nonsense, Lawrence!” exclaimed his wife, melting altogether now, although the news seemed too good to be true. “It isn’t, really, the least probable.”

“It is the improbable things that always come to pass, I find.”

“I suppose she will live abroad?” said Lady Gwendolyn, with a great affectation of carelessness.

“I dare say.”

“Don’t you mind?” she asked, drawing quite close to him and speaking coaxingly.

“Why should I mind?”

“You are such old friends.”

“Exactly. But, you see, I shall have to cut all my old friends now, since my wife takes it into her head to be jealous of them.”

“Oh, Lawrence!”

“It is true, Gwen!”

“Not quite,” she answered, with sudden candor. “I have never been jealous of any one but Mrs. O’Hara.”

“And why of her, Gwen? We were both free eight months back, and if we had cared for each other, what need have hindered our marriage?”

Lady Gwendolyn hung her head.

“I never thought about that.”

“No; my wife took a foolish fancy into her head, and, instead of doing her best to banish it, allowed it to take quiet possession of all her thoughts. The consequence was that I could not shake hands civilly with an old friend without being supposed to care more for her than the woman I had sworn to love and cherish before Heaven! Confess that you have been very absurd, Gwen.”

“I am afraid I have, Lawrence,” she answered penitently, as she nestled close to him and laid her head on his shoulder. “But you may be sure I shall trust you for the future, for my own sake. I have suffered dreadfully since yesterday afternoon.”

“I know that, and you deserve a severe snubbing; only I am so weak where you are concerned, that, if I began to scold, I should end ignominiously by caressing you, I fancy.”

“And what a nice ending, dear.”

Lawrence was only a man, and his wife was very fair; so that we may be sure he readily responded to this naive invitation. But he had a mind to improve the occasion before he let the subject drop; so he gave her a little lecture on the terrible result of any want of confidence between husband and wife; and she was so glad to be forgiven, that she not only promised all he required, but even forgot to remind him that he did not always practise what he preached.

But the Borton mystery had almost faded from her mind by this time, and, moreover, she thought it better to “let sleeping dogs lie.”

That was a happy evening, and one Lady Gwendolyn often looked back upon with longing afterward. They had tickets for the Opera Comique, but decided at the last moment that they should be much happier at home; and, dismissing the carriage, drew their chairs up to the log fire, and chatted merrily until bedtime.

Lady Gwendolyn did not cry herself to sleep that night, nor was she troubled by any evil presentiment of coming trouble. As she seemed tired, Colonel Dacre was careful not to rouse her when he went to his dressing-room. But half an hour later he came hurriedly back, with an open letter in his hand.

“Gwen, darling,” he said, “I am so very sorry, but I must go to England directly upon urgent business. The hurried journey would be too much for you, even if I were able to wait until you got ready; but I shall not be away more than three or four days, and I am sure you will not mind being such a short time alone.”

He looked so troubled and anxious that she said at once:

“I am afraid there is something serious the matter that you will not tell me.”

“My uncle, Sir Lawrence, is dead!”

“Is that all?” an inward voice prompted her to say.

He colored faintly, and a little spasm of pain contracted his firm lips as he answered:

“Isn’t that enough, Gwen? However, I must not stand talking here. I have only just time to catch the boat-train.”

He took leave of her hurriedly, but very tenderly, promising to write to her from Dover, and then caught up the traveling-bag he had been filling as he talked, and hurried away; turning back at the door to give her a last loving glance and smile.

No sooner had she heard his fiacre drive off than she jumped out of bed with almost a guilty air, and, picking up a telegram she had seen drop out of his pocket, read the following words:

“Come the moment you receive this. There will be an exposé if not, as she is very violent and restless. She says she wants to find her husband, and we have only been able to keep her quiet by promising that she should see you to-night.”

Was her husband indeed lost to her?

CHAPTER XXI.

FEAR.

Lady Gwendolyn was so stunned by what she had seen, that for full ten minutes she stood in the center of the room, with the paper in her hand, not as yet realizing the misfortune that had befallen her, and yet with a dead weight at her heart, and such a sense of bitter loss and desecration, that she felt as if it would be a blessed thing to die.

Her husband had left her with a kiss, and yet all these months he had been living a lie. And living it boldly, although he must have known that chance might betray him at any moment. And the Nemesis which had been dogging his steps all that while had at last tracked him home to his shame and her sorrow. How she pitied herself as she thought of her great loss, and pictured the long, lonely future that she must needs pass without him.

The prospect appalled her so much that she had almost a mind at the minute to brave the whole world and defy her own conscience rather than be parted from him, whom she loved better than life.

And the child that was coming to her. Oh! that was hardest, after all. To be born to an inheritance of shame; to come into a world which had no welcome for it; to see tears always instead of smiles in the eyes which would have been so fond and proud, but for all this shame. No wonder Lady Gwendolyn threw herself down despairingly on the very floor, feeling in her abasement as if this were the only fitting place for such as she.

Fortunately Phœbe had stolen in an hour ago, while her mistress slept, and lighted the fire, otherwise Lady Gwendolyn would have been chilled to the bone, for the streets were crisp with frost, and there was a cold, clear brightness in the air. As it was, she felt so benumbed, that presently she had to get back into bed to warm herself, and lay there, calm now, but utterly forlorn, trying to think.

Phœbe came in after awhile on tiptoe, and was almost startled at the wild brilliancy of the wide-open eyes.

“I fancied you were still asleep, my lady,” she said cheerfully. “May I get you some tea now?”

“If you please,” answered Lady Gwendolyn, listening curiously for the sound of her own voice, and surprised to find that it had much the same tone as usual. “And be quick, Phœbe, we are going to follow Colonel Dacre as soon as we can get away.”

Phœbe forgot her manners, and actually stared. Not an hour ago Colonel Dacre had told her that Lady Gwendolyn would remain in Paris until he came back to fetch her, and had bade Phœbe be specially watchful and attentive. Phœbe had promised readily, being much attached to her mistress, and on the strength of this recommendation she ventured to say:

“Surely you won’t travel alone, my lady, in your state of health? Colonel Dacre said he should be returning in a few days.”

“He will not be able,” replied Lady Gwendolyn coldly. “And I dislike being in a hotel without him. How soon can you get ready?”

“Not before evening, my lady, I am afraid.”

“Very well, then, we must travel in the night.”

“Oh! but my lady, it would kill you.”

“Nonsense! I am much stronger than you think, and with a carriage to ourselves I shall be able to sleep the whole way. Anyhow, I mean to go, so pray get on as fast as you can. If you are not ready, I shall be forced to leave you behind.”

This threat had the desired effect. Phœbe began to bustle about her valiantly, and soon made visible progress.

But in the middle of her packing, she suddenly appeared in the salon.

“You forgot to tell me, my lady, what I was to do with Colonel Dacre’s things.”

“The same as you do with mine, put them into the boxes.”

“Very well, my lady,” answered Phœbe, and went back to her work.

By four o’clock that afternoon the boxes were all packed and corded, the carriage ordered, and everything ready for their departure by the seven-o’clock train from the Northern Railway.

Lady Gwendolyn managed to swallow a cutlet, and drink a couple of glasses of light wine, as a preparation for the journey; and then she dressed herself, while Phœbe was down-stairs, fortifying herself against contingencies.

But before leaving the hotel, Lady Gwendolyn put the telegram which had given her such sorrowful information into an envelope, directed it to Colonel Dacre, “Hotel d’Albion,” stamped it, and then put it into her pocketbook, ready to post in Calais. She thought it explained everything, without its being necessary for her to add a single word; and she was too utterly miserable to write.

Neither did she care to blame him, for she remembered, as the only thing in his extenuation, that she had given way too weakly at first, and ought never to have married him until she had thoroughly investigated the Borton mystery, and made him prove that he was really free.

But she had been too eager to secure herself a little happiness, and she had loved him so foolishly. That was her excuse; and, though it may seem a poor one to some, there are others who will understand it, and pity the poor desolate woman, who had found the thing she had coveted turn to ashes in her mouth, like the apples of the Dead Sea.

“If there are any letters for you, or monsieur, where shall we forward them, miladi?” asked the obsequious manager, as he bowed her to the carriage.

“You had better take care of them for the present,” she replied. “Colonel Dacre will probably be passing through Paris in a few days, and will call for them. If he changes his plans, I will send you my address.”

We may be sure her heart was very full as she passed through the brilliant streets, where but two days ago she had walked proudly on her husband’s arm, happy in his love, and unconscious of a single care. But Phœbe was opposite her, and she was obliged to assume an indifferent air. She even pointed out a few objects of interest to the girl, and bore her martyrdom so finely that the other never once suspected the real state of the case.

Phœbe tried hard to persuade her mistress to rest a little while at Dover, for her worn, wan look made the faithful creature anxious; but Lady Gwendolyn shook her head.

“She would have plenty of time for rest later,” she said, with a wistful, far-away look, as if the rest she longed for was not of this world.

On reaching town in the cold, gray, early morning, Lady Gwendolyn drove to a quiet little hotel, and then, in spite of herself, she was obliged to let Phœbe put her to bed, for she was so utterly weary she could scarcely speak. But mindful of her master’s orders, Phœbe took the law into her own hands, and made Lady Gwendolyn take a bowl of hot soup and a glass of wine. She was passive now from sheer lassitude, and after awhile fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

Phœbe sat by her for about an hour, during which time she never once stirred. And then she began to feel so drowsy herself, she was glad to remember that Lady Gwendolyn had told her to go and lie down. Phœbe was not naturally a heavy sleeper, but then she had been up all night, and was so dead beat by this time, that no sooner did her head touch the pillow than she lost count of everything.

The clock striking roused her, and she sprang off the bed and rubbed her eyes, glancing anxiously at the hour.

In her dismay she found it was exactly four! Phœbe smoothed her hair and dress, and darted off to her mistress’ room. Too much shocked at her own neglect to think of an excuse, she knocked softly at the door, and, receiving no answer, concluded that Lady Gwendolyn was still asleep, and ventured to enter. But the room was empty, and the strangest part of it all was, that Lady Gwendolyn’s bonnet, and the dark cloak in which she had traveled, were gone from the place in which Phœbe had put them. And so also were the muff and gloves, and minor accessories of her outdoor toilet.

It was difficult to suppose that, after such a fatiguing journey, and other things taken into account as well, a delicate person like Lady Gwendolyn would have gone out into the cold. But as she was not to be found, this seemed the only feasible solution of the mystery; and Phœbe went down-stairs to see if she could get any information on the subject.

In the passage she came upon a very polite waiter, who was quite willing to tell her all he knew, and even a little more. He knew the lady at No. 10 had gone out, for he had fetched her a carriage himself. But after he had sufficiently admired Phœbe’s black eyes, which had done great havoc among couriers and valets since she had been abroad, he did hint that the head chambermaid would know more about it than he did, as she had been summoned to the lady’s room, and had brought down the order for the carriage.

“Perhaps you will kindly tell me where to find her, then?”

“I’ll go and fetch her, miss,” answered the obliging waiter, and vanished, returning presently with rather a sour-faced woman of forty, whom he introduced as Miss Smith.

And Miss Smith, who was more amiable than she looked, was able to give Phœbe all the information she required, and a message from Lady Gwendolyn to boot, that she had gone away upon business, and should not, probably, be back until the evening of the next day.

“And, meantime, miss, she said you was to be sure and make yourself comfortable, and order whatever you required,” concluded Miss Smith affably; “and at any time that you want a little company and change, there’s a pleasant room down-stairs, where there’s always somebody in and out, and ready for a chat.”

Phœbe thanked her, and said she would look in later, and then went back to her room, wondering.

Lady Gwendolyn’s strange conduct suggested a mystery; but with all the theories Phœbe started, the idea of any difference between her master and mistress never once occurred to her. She would have quoted them confidently anywhere as the most united couple in England.

She passed the evening down-stairs, and allowed the obliging waiter to languish as much as he liked, being fortified against his seductions by her honest love for a cousin in the country. But when Miss Smith said slyly:

“Does her ladyship often go off so sudden-like?”

Phœbe drew up her head, and tightened her lips to answer:

“Ladies like my mistress have calls upon them people like us can’t understand. The colonel’s uncle has just died, and left him the title and heaps of money into the bargain; so, of course, there’s a good deal to do.”

“Of course!” repeated Miss Smith, with an air of conviction; “only it’s so odd her ladyship didn’t take you.”

“Not at all—I wasn’t wanted. I dare say the colonel sent for her in a hurry, and she got too flurried to know what she was about.”

“But—well, it’s no affair of mine,” observed Miss Smith; “but I should be sorry to see a fellow creature took in. Living in a hotel one sees a good deal of life, and there’s often people coming here who pretend to be very fine, and aren’t any better than I am, after all.”

It was the obliging waiter’s desertion that prompted this insinuation; but Phœbe never guessed that her own bright eyes were at the bottom of the scandal, and drew herself up with great dignity.

“I am not one of those who take people on trust,” she said, with her nose well en l’air. “If her ladyship had not been what she pretended, she wouldn’t have been troubled with my services. I have never had anything but good places yet, and have no fancy for coming down in the world.”

So saying, Phœbe withdrew to her own apartment, feeling that she had had the best of it, on the whole; and, after visiting Lady Gwendolyn’s room to see if by any chance she had returned as mysteriously as she had departed, she went to bed, and slept undisturbed until the morning.

CHAPTER XXII.

CONVICTION.

Lady Gwendolyn had come to England with a purpose, and she proceeded to carry it out as soon as her physical strength would allow her. She awoke about three o’clock, much comforted and strengthened by her long sleep, and was glad to find herself alone. Of course, it was easy enough to dispose of Phœbe, but she rather preferred not to have any trouble in the matter.

She breathed freer when she got outside the hotel, but she took good care to keep her veil down. On reaching the station, she found she had half an hour to wait for her train, and so she forced herself to take some refreshment. She knew that she had need to garner up her strength if she was to perform the task she had set herself.

It was quite dark when she reached Borton, but, of course, there were lights in the station; and as all the officials knew her well, she had to double her precautions. She ordered a fly, and drove straight to the best inn in the little town, as she happened to know the proprietor of “The Chequers” was a newcomer, and had no knowledge of her personally.

However, he saw in a moment that she was a lady; and though her small traveling-bag did not look promising, he received her with great dignity, and showed her at once to the best rooms in the hotel.

A tidy little maid was sent to wait upon her, and while she helped to remove her things, Lady Gwendolyn said carelessly:

“Have you any nice houses in the neighborhood, Mary?”

“Yes, ma’am,” answered Mary. “There is Colonel Dacre’s, ma’am—Borton Hall, it is called.”

“Indeed! is it a fine place?”

“Yes, ma’am; but not so fine as Lord Teignmouth’s, which is four miles out of the town.”

“Really! I suppose neither of them is here now?”

And my lady toyed with her ring, and looked languidly indifferent, although a keen observer might have noticed that she stopped her very breath to listen for Mary’s answer.

“My lord is away, ma’am; but I heard this morning that Colonel Dacre was at the Hall.”

“And his wife, too, I presume?”

“No; she isn’t there.”

“Surely. They haven’t been very long married, you know.”

“Long enough to get tired of each other, ma’am, perhaps.”

“It is to be hoped not. But are you sure Colonel Dacre is here, Mary?”

“Quite sure, ma’am, for I saw him with my own eyes last night.”

“But I thought he had come into a title lately, Mary?”

“So he has, ma’am, begging his pardon. It’s Sir Lawrence he is called now, for I heard master tell the waiter so. However, whatever he is called, I saw him last night.”

“You know him, then?”

“I ought to, for I lived at Borton Hall when I was younger.”

“Oh, indeed!” said Lady Gwendolyn, beginning to feel rather uncomfortable. “Then I dare say you know Lord Teignmouth by sight?”

“No, ma’am, I don’t. I never saw any of the family,” was the reply; and Lady Gwendolyn breathed freer.

She was wiser now than she had been, and took care to nurse her strength. Although she hoped and prayed to die, it must not be just yet—until she was quite sure she had nothing to live for. She had come to Borton to learn the truth, and she must be careful that physical weakness did not stand in the way of her enlightenment.

So she ordered a chop, and, what is more, ate it, and then went to bed. The next day she kept very quiet till about four o’clock, when the day was beginning to draw in, and then she had a fly brought, paid her bill, and drove to the entrance of Borton village, where she alighted from the vehicle, and dismissed the driver, telling him the house she was going to was close by, and she should prefer to walk the remaining distance. He suggested she should have a boy to carry her bag; but this she declined, saying it was quite light, and she could manage very well.

It was not quite dark enough for her purpose yet, and so she lingered about the lanes for half an hour; and when the skeleton trees were faint shadows only, and a few lights began to twinkle in the cottage windows, she took her way slowly to Borton Hall.

She glided through the garden, listening to every sound, hiding herself quickly if a bare branch creaked in the wind, or a bird flew across her path. Keeping on the dark side of the house, she came presently to a side door, which she tried softly.

Finding it did not yield, she brought a key out of her pocket, and, inserting it cautiously in the lock, she soon found herself inside the house.

She knew every corner of it by heart, for her husband had always been pleased to answer her questions, only too glad to see that she took so much interest in their home; so she made her way with little difficulty to the north wing, passing the library on her way, and inhaling the fragrance of her husband’s cigar.

How little he guessed that she was so near. Perhaps even his thoughts were with her, as he lay back in his favorite armchair, with his feet on the fender, and pictured how pleasant the room would be later, when Gwendolyn was scorching her face on a low stool at his side.

She had become so much a part of his life, so entirely necessary to his happiness, that his cigar had not the right flavor unless she was there to see him smoke it.

Somehow her image was more than ever obtrusive to-night, and he had to rise and shake himself to get rid of the painful impression that something was wrong with her.

“Humbug!” he said to himself angrily. “I should have heard, of course, if there had been anything wrong. I told Phœbe she was to telegraph directly if Gwen were ill. That’s the only disadvantage of being married—a man doubles his anxieties. But, then, he trebles his pleasures,” continued Colonel Dacre quickly, afraid lest he should be disloyal, even unconsciously, to the woman he loved so much better than himself; “and I wouldn’t be unmarried again even if they offered me in return perfect immunity from care or pain for the rest of my life!”

With this, he lighted another cigar, and then sat down and wrote a long letter to his wife, telling her that his uncle’s funeral would take place the next day, at two o’clock, at Milworth Abbey—where Sir Lawrence had died—and that he should leave for Paris that night, to bring her home.

It was a very tender epistle, and the love that was in his heart breathed out of every line. He told her how much he had missed her, and how tame his life seemed without her, concluding with the playful declaration that, whatever happened, they would never be parted again, for those whom Heaven had joined business should not put asunder even for a day.

Meanwhile, Lady Gwendolyn had made her way to a suite of rooms in the next wing. From her husband’s embarrassed manner when she questioned him about these she fancied she should find the key to the mystery of his life there, and her heart trembled within her. A faint line of light under one of the doors showed that the rooms were occupied; and, stooping down, she tried to reconnoiter through the keyhole.

At first she could see nothing, but as her eyes became accustomed to the narrow tube through which all investigations had to be made, she perceived a female figure seated by the fire. The hands were pendent over the arms of the chair—the whole attitude betokened dejection—although from the hair and figure of this woman she was evidently young.

Her face was turned from the door, and Lady Gwendolyn longed to obtain a glimpse of it, for she felt almost sure that it belonged to the person whom she had seen at Borton Hall shortly before her marriage, and who had declared herself to be Lawrence Dacre’s wife.

She must have knelt there half an hour, and still the woman did not turn her head. She was growing so sick and giddy at last that she was obliged to withdraw from her post of observation and rest.

When she looked again the large, pale, lack-luster eyes were turned toward the door, and Lady Gwendolyn recognized her at once.

She had almost decided to go in, confront her, and insist upon a full explanation, when she heard a step she knew only too well mounting the stairs, and from a sudden instinct stepped back, and concealed herself behind the heavy curtains of a window behind. She had scarcely drawn the folds about her, before her husband appeared, holding a lamp in his hand, which he set down on a little table, so close to the curtain behind which she was hidden that she trembled in her shoes.

He took a large key out of his pocket, and turned it twice in the lock. But it was evident that even with this he did not feel that his prisoner was safe, for he had to undraw two bolts before he could gain admittance.

Then he took the lamp and walked in, closing the door after him. Lady Gwendolyn’s knees shook under her, and she had a feeling at the moment as if she would rather not know the truth.

But she conquered this weakness, and knelt down at the keyhole again, just in time to see Sir Lawrence bend over the woman and kiss her tenderly.

Then he drew a chair to her side, and Lady Gwendolyn heard him say, in a coaxing voice:

“You will be glad to get away from here, Mary, dear, will you not? I have taken a pretty cottage for you in the country, where you will be able to have a garden, and grow plenty of flowers and fruit. You will like that, I am sure?”

“I want to be with my husband,” she answered, in a voice of stern resentment. “What right have you to send me out of the way?”

“But, Mary, I have thoroughly explained why what you want is impossible. And, indeed, it would not be for your happiness, my poor child.”

“I am not a child, and you treat me shamefully,” she snapped. “I won’t have a cottage in the country!”

“Then what will you have?” he asked, with admirable patience, although Lady Gwendolyn knew, by the inflection of his voice, how harassed and weary he was.

“I will have my proper position. A married woman ought to live with her husband.”

“If she can, Mary.”

“And I can, and will,” she said, after the manner of a fractious child crying for the moon. “You want to hide me up, because you are jealous of my beauty, and know that I never move without a train of admirers; but I’ve often played you tricks before, and I will play you tricks again. Wherever you put me, I will run away.”

“Oh, Mary!” was his reproachful exclamation.

“Don’t call me Mary; I hate the name,” she said, her pale eyes dilating fiercely. “But you always do everything I don’t want you to do.”

“I am sure I shall try to please you,” he answered, with gentle gravity. “I wish you would try to understand that, my dear.”

He laid his hand on hers impressively; but she shook it off as if it had been a viper. Then suddenly her mood changed, and she began to whimper.

Nobody cared for her. What did it signify whether she was living or dead? She would make an end of it all one of those days, that she would! She hated a cottage in the country—she hated everything! She would stamp down the flowers as soon as they put their heads above ground. It was no use talking to her! And so on, until Lady Gwendolyn could scarcely wonder that Sir Lawrence had tried to escape from such an impracticable, violent person, and began to pity him a little in her heart.

He waited until the torrent of words had subsided, and then he said, with as much firmness as gentleness:

“You know it is very wrong to excite yourself in this way, Mary. I never deny you anything it is right you should have, and you must try and be a little more reasonable.”

“Pray, are you reasonable?” she said, with a harsh, mocking laugh. “You cried for the moon when you were a child.”

“Possibly; but, you see, I don’t cry for it now. As people get older they understand that what they want is not always attainable or good for them.”

“What a bore you are!” she said rudely; and turned her back upon him forthwith.

Certainly, with all his faults, Sir Lawrence had his temper splendidly under control; for he did not even look annoyed. Perhaps he felt that he had no right to resent anything she might say, since she could never insult him half as much as he was injuring her. However this may be, he was very patient, and tried industriously to soothe and satisfy her. But Lady Gwendolyn had heard enough by this time.

She rose from her knees, cold and benumbed, and stole out of the house where she had thought to reign queen, in stealth, like a thief. How she got to Borton Station she could never remember, but she did get there, and, eventually, to the hotel, where she found Phœbe waiting for her, and evidently anxious.

“Get me to bed as quickly as you can,” said her mistress hoarsely; and not another word did she speak.

Phœbe, who did not like her looks, sat beside her for an hour; and then, as she seemed to be sleeping quietly, she went to bed. In the morning Lady Gwendolyn was very pale, but perfectly composed. Motioning Phœbe to her bedside, she said, with a little tremor in her voice:

“Phœbe, circumstances over which I have no control force me to leave Sir Lawrence for good. You have behaved exceedingly well ever since you have been in my service, and I should like to keep you with me; at the same time, I should not like to injure your prospects in any way. I shall live very quietly; I shall not even call myself by my real name. People will look suspiciously on me, perhaps; and you will hear their remarks, and feel annoyed and humiliated at being supposed to live with a lady whose character will not bear investigation. This is as certain as sorrow and pain. Are you sufficiently attached to me to brave it all?”

“Yes, my lady,” replied Phœbe, without a moment’s hesitation.

“Then you elect to follow my fortunes?”

“Yes, my lady.”

“You understand, I hope, that I shall not allow you to presume upon my position, Phœbe?”

“I don’t think you will find that I shall ever try to do so, my lady,” answered the girl, with simple dignity. “If I am no worse treated than I have been thus far, I shall have nothing to complain of; and at any time that anything in my manner or conduct displeases your ladyship, you have only to speak, and I will endeavor to alter it.”

Lady Gwendolyn held out her hand to the faithful creature. She was desolate enough to feel thankful even for a humble friend like this; and the best service is that which is dictated by affection as well as by duty.

That afternoon Lady Gwendolyn had a confidential interview with her solicitor, Mr. Large; gave him a power-of-attorney to receive her dividends, and then, accompanied by Phœbe, she left town.

CHAPTER XXIII.

A PAINFUL SURPRISE.

Several of Sir Lawrence’s—as we must call him now—new neighbors had attended the funeral, and his pleasant but subdued manner impressed them so favorably that they were ready to give him and his wife a cordial greeting when they came to live among them.

“We always felt for your uncle,” said old Lord Milworth, as he shook the young baronet heartily by the hand; “but, you see, he lived such a secluded life that we did not know him well enough to miss him. But you and your beautiful wife will be great acquisitions, Sir Lawrence, and I hope we shall shortly have the pleasure of welcoming you to Loamshire.”

Sir Lawrence thanked him in suitable terms, and said he counted upon bringing Lady Gwendolyn to the Abbey in the course of a week or so, and this information pleased the old lord mightily, for he was a great admirer of the fair sex generally, and of Lady Gwendolyn in particular. But in spite of all the kind feeling that was shown him, Sir Lawrence was thankful when he found himself in the carriage that was to take him to the station. The Abbey seemed to him full of the gloom of death, and cast a chill over his warm, eager pulses.

However, once on his way to Paris, he began to recover himself. When he reached town, he had only just time to drive from one station to the other, but by promising the cabman double fare, he managed to catch his train, and was soon speeding toward Dover, picking up his spirits gradually as he went along.

He reached Paris at about six o’clock in the morning, and drove straight to his hotel. Much as he longed to see his wife, and clasp her once more in his arms, he was too unselfish to disturb her at such an early hour, and, ordering another room, he lay down and tried to sleep for awhile.

But he found this to be out of the question, and soon rose and dressed himself.

Precisely as the clock struck nine—not a minute before—he knocked softly at the door of his wife’s bedroom, and, receiving no answer, he went in on tiptoe, enjoying the anticipation of waking her with a kiss.

But a sudden prophetic chill crept over him when he perceived that the bed was empty. There where he had last seen his wife’s fresh, flowerlike face was a large pink edredon, such as Othello might have used to smother Desdemona.

He tossed it over, thinking that, maybe, she had hidden herself beneath it in order to give him a little surprise in her turn; but as there was no sign of her or her belongings anywhere, he went back into the salon, and rang the bell, as if he would ring it down.

The garçon came up running. Sir Lawrence asked if miladi had changed her room, at which Francois stared in amazement.

“Changed her room?” he repeated. “Why, she is gone!”

“Where?”

“Miladi did not say, monsieur; and it was not our affair to inquire. We thought she had left to join monsieur.”

“Are there any letters for me?” demanded Sir Lawrence, putting his hand to his heart, as if he had received a sudden blow.

“Yes, monsieur, there is one for you, and also several for miladi. We gave them in charge of the manager directly they arrived.”

“Fetch them quickly,” answered Sir Lawrence, who thought he should find something to explain his wife’s sudden caprice; and he scarcely breathed until the man came back, bringing with him all the letters Sir Lawrence had written to his wife, and one in Lady Gwendolyn’s handwriting addressed to him.

He waited until the garçon had retired, and then he tore open this last with an eager, tremulous hand.

A letter full of reproaches and accusations would not have moved him so much as this cruel silence, this cold abandonment. It is true that the telegram was a full explanation, and quite accounted for his wife’s sudden departure, but he had not expected such dignified self-control in an impulsive girl like Lady Gwendolyn. He forgot that she had received one of those terrible blows that alter a woman’s entire nature, and, therefore, it was useless to seek any precedent for her present course of conduct.

At first he could hardly realize the full significance of all that had happened. It seemed so impossible that his wife had really left him, and yet, the cruel contrast between his hopes and the chill reality destroyed the last remnant of his self-control. He buried his face in his hands, and the tears rained from his burning eyes. His whole life was wrapped up in this woman who had deserted him; and the child that was coming to her was his.

Recovering himself a little, he sat down to ponder as to the best course to be pursued. He knew it was no use advertising, because Lady Gwendolyn had often told him that this would be an unnecessary exposure so far as she was concerned, as she never read a newspaper. How, then, could he get at her? Suddenly, as if by inspiration, it occurred to him that his wife must have taken her solicitor into her confidence, as he received her rents, and would have to keep her supplied with money. He did not know Mr. Large’s address, but he felt sure that his own man of business would, as he had had to communicate with the other at the time of Lady Gwendolyn’s marriage.

Therefore, Sir Lawrence made up his mind to return at once to London; and, as he lost no time, he found himself back again that night—too late, however, to call upon Mr. Browne.

He passed a miserable night, and was only too thankful when it was time to start for Mr. Browne’s office with a reasonable hope of finding him there. Mr. Browne looked very much surprised when he heard Sir Lawrence’s errand.

“Surely her ladyship has not forgotten,” he said. “She must often have occasion to communicate with him.”

“Yes, but it is I who want to communicate with Mr. Large,” responded his client; “and Lady Gwendolyn is not with me.”

“Oh, I see!” replied Mr. Browne, quite satisfied. “I do not remember Mr. Large’s address at this moment, but I will look through my books, and tell you directly. I hope her ladyship is quite well?” he concluded, as he began to turn over the leaves of a small manuscript book, stopping when he came to the letter “L,” which headed one of the pages.

“Pretty well, thank you,” replied Sir Lawrence hesitatingly; but Mr. Browne did not hear.

“Here it is!” he said at last; “Throgmorton Street, Danesbury Square, number ten.”

Sir Lawrence rose at once, thanked him politely, and hurried off. He had to wait half an hour at the office before Mr. Large arrived, and was beginning to get very impatient, when that gentleman suddenly appeared before him.

“I must apologize for keeping you waiting,” he said, with a courteous bow; “but I had to see a client at his own house this morning, and have not even had time to breakfast yet. Can I be of any use to you, Sir Lawrence?”

“You certainly can, Mr. Large. I suppose we shall be private here?”

“Quite so. My clerks would not disturb me themselves, or allow any one else to disturb me when I am busy.”

“And they cannot overhear what we say?”

“Most assuredly not.”

In spite of this assurance, Sir Lawrence looked cautiously about him before he began, in a low voice:

“You know, of course, Mr. Large, that my wife has left me?”

Mr. Large bowed. He had no need to deny this.

Sir Lawrence went on:

“I must tell you that she has made a great mistake, Mr. Large. If I deserved such treatment at her hands I should only be too glad, naturally, to let matters remain as they are, and regain my liberty; but she has judged too hastily and superficially. I could explain things to her perfect satisfaction if she would grant me an interview, and I came here on purpose to ask you to tell her this, as she has left me no way of communicating this to her myself.”

“I would willingly do what you ask, Sir Lawrence,” Mr. Large replied, “but Lady Gwendolyn has not at present given me any address. She took with her a check for three hundred and twenty pounds, being her half-year’s rent and dividends, and said, as she had not yet decided where to go, she would write to me later.”

“What did she give as her reason for such an extraordinary step?”

“She gave no reason.”

“You astonish me!” exclaimed Sir Lawrence vehemently. “I fancied she would have accused me, in order to excuse herself.”

“Then you will pardon me for saying that you do not understand Lady Gwendolyn. If impulsive, she is very generous, and rather sought to take the blame of your separation upon herself. I remember her very words: ‘You know I am a spoiled child, Mr. Large, and very difficult to please. I expected so much that I was sure to be disappointed, and, therefore, have no right to complain. Pray let us keep the affair as quiet as we can.’ I reminded her that her friends would demand some explanation of her conduct; but she assured me that she was perfectly independent in every way, and had no intention of consulting anybody. Of course, I knew nothing of her ladyship’s motives, and had no right to interfere. I am only surprised that she allowed me to say as much as I did.”

“Did she look ill, Mr. Large?”

“Extremely ill—so ill that I took the liberty of advising her to keep within reach of good medical advice.”

“And what did she say?” inquired Sir Lawrence eagerly.

“She said she had had a long journey, and a trying time mentally; but that she should, no doubt, be all right when she got into the country.”

“Got into the country?” repeated Sir Lawrence, welcoming the hint eagerly. “She did not mention Turoy, I suppose?”

“Yes, she did. She told me that her old nurse, Hannah, would not be able to take care of it any longer as her husband had obtained a good situation at Westhampstead, and, therefore, she should like the house let if I could get her a respectable tenant.”

“Should you consider me a respectable tenant?” inquired Sir Lawrence, with a faint, trembling smile.

Mr. Large seemed amused.

“Would you care to have the Grange?”

“Certainly I should. I could not bear a stranger there where my wife passed so many happy months when she was a child; moreover, I think that Lady Gwendolyn ought not to be living on six or seven hundred a year when I have thirty thousand, and I suppose she will not allow me to help her in any other way.”

“But, you see, Sir Lawrence, her ladyship knows that the Grange is only worth about eighty or ninety pounds a year; and if I were to offer her a fancy rent, she would immediately suspect something wrong.”

“It can’t be wrong for a man to support his wife. I wish, with all my heart, that Lady Gwendolyn had not a farthing, and then it would have been difficult for her to leave me, unless she had the law on her side.”

“I infer, from what she says, Sir Lawrence, that she considers herself to have the law on her side, but does not care to appeal to it.”

“I wish she would, with all my heart. The only thing I ask is an opportunity of explaining matters, and clearing myself. I should never have condemned her without proof.”

“When I begged her ladyship to reflect before she took a step that she might regret so much later, and mentioned how deceitful appearances often were, she told me that she had the fullest proof, and must needs believe her own eyes and ears.”

“Her own eyes!” repeated Sir Lawrence. “But she came straight from Paris here, I presume?”

“I do not know if am doing right, Sir Lawrence, but I cannot help telling you that when her ladyship came to me she had just returned from Borton, and not from Paris.”

Sir Lawrence became frightfully pale. He understood it all now.

“Then I am undone,” he said. “What my wife saw there she would certainly misconstrue, and she has left me no chance of explaining matters.”

For a minute his courage gave way utterly, and he buried his face in his hands, and trembled from head to foot with the effort he made to command himself.

CHAPTER XXIV.

A COTTAGE BY THE SEA.

All Mr. Large’s sympathies had been with Lady Gwendolyn at starting; but now he began to think there might possibly be another side to the question. He knew Lady Gwendolyn was naturally impulsive—and legal men generally look upon impulsiveness as a fault, or, at best, an inconvenient quality which stands in the way of anything like calm, dispassionate judgment. Of course she had seen and heard something, since she said so; but then “trifles light as air are, to the jealous, confirmation strong as proofs of holy writ,” and a person who jumps to conclusions is not to be trusted in any way.

He felt for this girl more than a lawyer’s interest in his client, for he had known her since she was a child. He could not bear that she should throw away her happiness, and, therefore, when Sir Lawrence said:

“If I write a letter to my wife, explaining matters fully, will you forward it to her as soon as you know her address, Mr. Large?”

He answered readily:

“With great pleasure, Sir Lawrence. She did not forbid me to do that.”

“Then I won’t detain you any longer just now,” said Sir Lawrence. “I am exceedingly obliged to you for befriending me, Mr. Large,” he added, with a sad smile; “and I do assure you, on my honor as a gentleman, that I am perfectly guiltless of any offense toward my wife. Where I have sinned is against Heaven, in setting myself up an earthly idol, and for this I am being punished deservedly now.”

His tone was one of deep emotion and unmistakable sincerity. Mr. Large could not help saying:

“I will do the best I can for you, Sir Lawrence; but I am afraid you will need all your patience. Her ladyship gave me to understand that she should not write to me until she wanted money, and as she is supposed to have her half-year’s allowance with her, that will not be yet.”

“My only hope is that not being accustomed to economize, she will find her income insufficient. She has been accustomed to spend more than she has now upon her dress and charities, and will, I am sure, find it very difficult to make both ends meet now. Excuse me for dwelling on this possibility; but it is my one hope.”

“Then it is not to be wondered you should dwell on it, under the circumstances,” replied Mr. Large. “But may I venture to ask, Sir Lawrence, what your present plans are?”

“Certainly. I shall remain in London, in order that I may be on the spot whenever you have any news for me. But I do not mean any of my friends to know of my whereabouts, and I shall not show myself either at Borton or Milworth until Lady Gwendolyn returns to me. In this way I hope to shield her from remark, and make it easier for her to take up her married life again without awkwardness or pain. We have been abroad for six months—let the world suppose we are still there.”

“I think you are quite right,” Mr. Large said; “and I feel sure that your consideration will touch Lady Gwendolyn when she comes to her senses. You will bring me your letter soon, Sir Lawrence?”

“To-morrow you may count upon it,” he answered; and then, with a polite apology for having taken up so much of the other’s time, Sir Lawrence departed.

The next day he took the letter to Mr. Large’s office, and put it into the worthy lawyer’s own hand. Then he went back to his solitary lodgings, to wait for the moment when his wife should repent of her hasty desertion, and come back to him timidly, humbly, to find such a generous pardon ready for her, that she would never dream of leaving him again.

“I am sorry I came to the seaside now,” said Lady Gwendolyn languidly, to her faithful abigail, one morning; “the wind kept me awake all night.”

“Yes, my lady, it does sound dolesome,” answered Phœbe. “They say there haven’t been such gales for years. A ship was wrecked close to the pier last night, and three poor souls drowned within sight of the coastguard.”

“And could nothing be done to help them?” inquired Lady Gwendolyn, with a shudder.

“No, my lady. The sea was running so high the life-boat couldn’t get out. It makes me feel quite sad to live where such things are always happening.”

“Nonsense! Phœbe, you exaggerate,” exclaimed her mistress, almost sharply. “This is the first shipwreck we have had since we came here.”

“But if we are to have one every three months, it will be cheerful, my lady,” answered Phœbe, who did not wish to make the best of the present state of affairs, and thought it very foolish of Lady Gwendolyn to live in a little cottage by the sea, with a couple of women servants to wait upon her, when she might have the run of two mansions, and twenty dependents at least.

And it was terribly dull at Wintertown. Phœbe had been accustomed to a good deal of change, and not a soul came near Cliff Cottage, except the clergyman of the parish, and he never brought his wife.

Lady Gwendolyn received him because his visits comforted her, and, moreover, she knew that he was too much of a gentleman to pry into her affairs, but she never allowed him to suppose that she was other than what she called herself—Mrs. St. Maur.

Her beauty and aristocratic air made her an object of great curiosity in Wintertown, and, of course, the women were all against her, and felt sure that her seclusion was the cover for some disgraceful secret; but what did all this matter to her?

She believed that she was doing right at the sacrifice of all her earthly happiness, and when her heart yearned with a great yearning toward her husband, she knelt down and prayed wildly not to be delivered into temptation, but to have strength to endure even to the end.

One night, just as the earth was beginning to grow green again, and primrose and violets were sweetening the hedgerows, Lady Gwendolyn, only half-conscious still, came stupefied out of her hour of anguish to find a little face nestling against her bosom, and to hear with deep thankfulness that a man child was born into the world, and born to her.

Coming back to life herself from the very edge of the grave, the joy of maternity swallowed up the recollection of past peril, and she thrilled through her whole being as she pressed her white lips to the soft, wrinkled cheek.

“I never saw a bonnier babe, ma’am,” said the nurse cheerfully. “How proud his poor pa would be of him if he could see him.”

Lady Gwendolyn shivered, and her joy was poisoned in a moment. This child belonged to her husband as well as to herself, and how could she ever look at it without being reminded of the saddest page in her life—of the wrong and treachery that had made her future a blank. The boy had his father’s deep blue eyes, and when they began to open fuller, Lady Gwendolyn had a strange fancy that they reproached her, and would turn uneasily away.

Was it possible that she had been too hasty? She had, of course, done right to leave Sir Lawrence, but she might have written and explained her motives, and given him a chance of excusing himself, for her own sake. In trying to punish him, she had left herself without any comfort, and the position was irretrievable now, since, if she showed any signs of relenting, he would imagine that she was ready to condone the past, and live with him, anyhow, rather than not live with him at all.

The boy was a month old before Lady Gwendolyn began to recover her strength, and, meanwhile, her expenses were very large. Doctors and nurses cost money, and the young mother’s extreme delicacy made economy out of the question for the present. Then, in her maternal pride, she was apt to forget that Master Lawrence was not heir to Milworth Abbey and Borton Hall, and indulged in extravagances her income would not stand.

Keeping no accounts, she did not realize, indeed, what she was spending, and was horrified one day, when, in looking in what she called her reserve purse, she found that it only contained five pounds.

And it wanted a month yet of dividend day. What was to be done? She had been in the habit of paying ready money for everything, and did not even know that she could obtain credit in the town, neither would her pride allow her to ask it.

She had left all her jewels in Mr. Large’s charge, otherwise she would have sacrificed a diamond ornament, and taken care to be more careful for the future. But under present circumstances this was out of the question, and meanwhile she must have sufficient to pay her weekly bills. She pondered the question anxiously all night, and by morning she had come to the conclusion that there was no help for it, and she must write to Mr. Large.

This was a sore humiliation to Lady Gwendolyn, the more so that Mr. Large had seemed to think she would not be able to manage on her income, having been accustomed to such lavish expenditure, and she had assured him that she intended to make it do, and had taken rather a lofty tone on the occasion. But it was better to eat humble pie than to run into debt, in a place where her only claim to consideration was the punctuality of her payments; so she put her pride in her pocket, and wrote off to Mr. Large, saying that her expenses had been much greater than she had anticipated of late, that she must ask him to advance her fifty pounds, and deduct them from her dividends when they became due.

Directly this letter was despatched, Lady Gwendolyn felt easier in her mind, although the effort it had cost her to write it had made her quite ill.

“And if I am embarrassed now,” she said to herself grimly, “what will it be when baby gets a big boy, and wants educating, and all that sort of thing? I haven’t even a rich maiden aunt to leave me money, and I have always heard that boys are expensive things to bring up. If we were in our right position now——But I will not think of that, since it is so impossible,” she added quickly. “I must do my best, and trust all the rest to Providence. I have heard of people who lived upon even less than six hundred a year, and now that I always dress in black, my clothes won’t cost me much.”

CHAPTER XXV.

SIR LAWRENCE ACTS.

Sir Lawrence Dacre was just stepping out of Mr. Large’s house, his head erect, his eyes shining, his whole face transformed, looking as a man might who has just received some very joyful tidings, when he suddenly felt a heavy hand on his shoulder, and, turning, found himself face to face with Lord Teignmouth.

Sir Lawrence’s face changed again, and he drew a little away from his former friend. He could not forget Reginald’s cruel desertion of his young sister, and was not inclined to encourage his advances under the circumstances.

But when he scrutinized him closer, Lord Teignmouth looked so thoroughly miserable and ill, that he could not help relenting a little and allowing him to walk along by his side.

“Where are you going now?” inquired the earl presently. “I want to have a little confidential talk with you, and should prefer to get out of the streets.”

“I am going to my lodgings,” replied Sir Lawrence; “but I have not much time to spare, as I leave for the country this evening.”

“Is Gwen here with you? I have been making inquiries in every direction, and couldn’t hear anything about either of you; so I imagined you were still abroad.”

Sir Lawrence colored, and said evasively:

“We were abroad for some time, but my wife is at the seaside at present with our boy. I hope we shall be settling down now. I begin to long after home.”

“I never heard anything about your boy’s birth,” said Lord Teignmouth, in a surprised tone; “and when you consider that he is heir to two estates, and an earldom into the bargain, it would have been natural to herald his birth with a flourish of trumpets.”

“How do you mean heir to an earldom?” said Sir Lawrence.

“I’ll tell you when we get inside,” replied Lord Teignmouth grimly; and he did not speak again until they were alone at Sir Lawrence’s rooms, and the other had assured him there was no fear of interruption. Then he said coolly and abruptly:

“Pauline has run away from me.”

“Good heavens!” exclaimed the young baronet. “Why?”

“Because she liked somebody else better, I suppose,” continued Lord Teignmouth, with assumed carelessness. “There is no answering for a woman’s fancies. Her accursed vanity makes her such an easy prey that you may always be sure she will run away from you sooner or later if any one takes the trouble to tempt her.”

“She would find it a perilous pastime if she belonged to me,” returned Sir Lawrence, with gleaming eyes, “unless she ran away alone.”

The earl shrugged his shoulders and laughed.

“It is much better to be philosophical. Besides, Pauline has been deceiving me for years, and I feel as if I am well rid of such a woman on any terms.”

“How did it happen?”

“In this wise. Pauline went to the Newburg masked ball, and I went to bed. The next morning about noon I had occasion to speak to my lady about a large dressmaker’s bill that had just come in, and went to look for her up-stairs. To my surprise I found that she had not been home at all that night. Of course I rang for her maid, and asked if she knew where her mistress was; but Julie was evidently as ignorant of her whereabouts as I was. She fancied that my lady was ill, as she did not return, she said; but when we came to look about us we found that she had taken her jewel-case with her, which gave her absence rather a suspicious air.”

“And there was no letter?”

“Not until the second post, and then I was honored with a somewhat voluminous epistle informing me in the politest way possible that I was an unsympathetic brute, with whom it was impossible for a woman with any natural sensibility to be happy, and finally that she had found some one to really care for, and believed that the future would compensate for the past.”

“Confoundedly cool!” exclaimed Sir Lawrence, apparently more moved than the earl himself.

“Or, rather, well put. Women of Pauline’s caliber are always insolent, unless you make them fear you; and that sort of thing was never in my line.”

“With whom is she gone? Do you know?”

“Oh, yes! I saw it in the Court Chronicle. The man whom she thinks able to sympathize with a sensitive, tender creature is a Russian—Prince Czarski—and is married to a handsome Irish woman, whose husband, Jack O’Hara, was in your regiment, I believe.”

“Poor Norah! Her second venture was not a very fortunate one, then. What could she have been thinking of when she married that man?”

“Of pin-money, I suppose, like all women,” answered Lord Teignmouth cynically; “and from that point of view she has done very well. I heard yesterday that she has taken Lady Gorman’s house, in Mayfair, for the season; so that she must be pretty well provided for. Have you any soda and brandy in the house?” he concluded abruptly, as he leaned back in his chair and passed his hand over his damp forehead. “This sort of thing is very upsetting, even when you are a philosopher.”

Sir Lawrence rang, and ordered what he required; and when Lord Teignmouth had drunk off a tumbler of the mixture, he went on gravely:

“The worst of it is, my wife has played a part all along. You remember that Belmont affair?”

“Quite well,” answered Sir Lawrence, who thought he knew what was coming.

“Well, she was to blame there, and not poor Gwen, after all, it seems. Belmont had been her lover before even she married me, and she corresponded with and met him secretly. If he had been as rich as the Russian prince, she would probably have sympathized with him to the same extent; but his poverty stood in the way of his preferment,” added the earl, with, a bitter laugh. “I am sorry she fooled me so completely; but Gwen is a generous soul, and knows how helpless men are in the hands of artful, designing women, so that, perhaps, she will forgive me, if you ask her. Tell her Pauline has done her one good turn, anyhow—she has made her boy my heir presumptive to the earldom of Teignmouth.”

“But surely you will get a divorce and marry again?”

“I shall get a divorce, probably; but I shall never marry again. ‘Once bit, twice shy,’ you know.”

“Do you mind telling me who enlightened you about that affair of Belmont’s?”

“Not at all; it was the princess—Mrs. O’Hara that was. She naturally felt indignant when she missed her spouse in the morning, too, and found out that my wife had wronged her doubly by running off with her husband. I don’t really think human nature could bear this tamely; and she came to me at once with her brother’s last letter, and also several written to him by Lady Teignmouth.”

“Poor Norah! Was she much troubled?”

“She was more angry than hurt, I really believe; and seemed comforted by the thought that she was well provided for, pecuniarily speaking. I fancy she had caught a Tartar, and was not sorry, on the whole, to be rid of him.”

“If that is the case, he will avenge your wrongs.”

“Exactly; it generally happens so. But I think we have given more time to this subject than it deserves—don’t you? When are you going to join Gwen?”

“To-night.”

“Then I may as well go with you, and make my peace with her, and be introduced to my heir—unless you have any objection?”

“I shall be delighted to have you, and so will Gwen, I am sure; for she is, as you say, a generous soul. But, if you would not mind, I should much rather you followed me to-morrow.”

“Very well; just as you like,” he answered, lighting a cigar. “Perhaps it would be better, as you can explain matters before I come. Somehow, I don’t want to talk of that unhappy business of mine more than I am quite obliged.”

“Naturally,” said Sir Lawrence, and glanced at the clock. “I must go now,” he added, “or I shall miss my train. There’s Gwen’s address, and we shall expect you some time to-morrow.”

“All right,” answered Lord Teignmouth; and the two parted with a cordial hand-shake. One was too happy, the other too miserable, to bear malice.

It was dusk when Sir Lawrence arrived at Wintertown. He took a fly, told the man to drive him to within a few doors of Lady Gwendolyn’s cottage, then jumped out and made his way to the house under cover of the darkness. Opening the door cautiously, he stole in to find himself face to face with Phœbe, who was just going to light the hall lamp.

She was so surprised that the candle she was holding dropped out of her hand, and for one anxious moment he thought she was going to scream and spoil all. But Phœbe was quite as glad to see him as he was to be there, and so, having recovered herself a little, she beckoned him, with a confidential air, into the dining-room, and said, under her breath:

“My lady is asleep, sir. Shall I go and tell her you are here?”

“Not for the world,” replied Sir Lawrence, who thought it would be pleasant to act the prince in the fairy tale, and wake his sleeping beauty with a kiss. But he stayed for a minute to ask Phœbe a few questions.

“Is your mistress quite well?”

“As well as any one can be who is always worrying and fretting, sir.”

“We’ll soon alter that, Phœbe. There has been a miserable mistake, and I had no chance of explaining. But you may begin to pack up—we shall all be off to-morrow evening.”

“Shall we, indeed, sir?” exclaimed Phœbe joyfully. “I hope everybody will know who my mistress really is now, sir; for it wasn’t pleasant to see her looked down upon, who was so much better than all of them, and she wouldn’t even let me call her ‘my lady’ before the other servants.”

“What name did they know her by, then?”

“Mrs. St. Maur.”

“Has she had no friends in Wintertown?”

“Not one, sir. The clergyman of the parish came occasionally——”

“And his wife?”

“Oh! no, sir.”

“Why not?”

“Because people misdoubted my lady’s being married at all, sir. You see, it did look odd her being here without any one to speak for her, as it were.”

“It was a miserable pity,” he said passionately. “But it is no use talking about it now, Phœbe.”

“No, sir,” answered the faithful girl, beginning to whimper; “only it has been a sad trial for me, who knew that my mistress merited the attention and respect she did not get. But come what may, she is a deal too handsome ever to have the women on her side.”

“I’ll take care they are civil to her, anyhow,” replied Sir Lawrence, with a very determined air, as he nodded kindly to Phœbe, and then went to his wife.

He had not the heart to wake her just yet, she slept so peacefully; and yet, when the fire blazed up for a moment, and he could see her face plainly, he thought it looked pale and worn.

As for the child—he was glad and proud to have a son, but it was very difficult to think of him when his mother was by. He took just one peep at the face crushed against Lady Gwendolyn’s bosom, and then he sat down on the couch at his wife’s side, and gradually insinuated his arm round her waist.

As she did not rouse he grew bolder, and presently her head was resting on his shoulder, as naturally as if there had been no break in their tender union. To listen to her soft breathing was happiness enough for awhile, but at last he began to weary for the sound of her voice—the touch of her sweet lips.

“Only that if I wake her, the child will wake, too, and then he’ll cry, as a matter of course,” thought Sir Lawrence, whose experience of babies so far had not prejudiced him in their favor. “I suppose I must wait.”

He was very patient for about five minutes, and then the soft, white cheek on his shoulder tempted him beyond his strength, and he bent down and kissed it with more vehemence than he realized.

Lady Gwendolyn stirred, then, and it seemed as if she had been dreaming of him, for his name rose to her lips, and as he drew her closer, baby and all, she opened her eyes quite wide, put up her lips to be kissed like a child, and said, very softly:

“I am glad you have come, papa; baby and I were wanting you badly.”

CHAPTER XXVI.

A LONG EXPLANATION.

“Well, my love,” said Sir Lawrence, when the first rapture of reunion was over, and his wife was leaning languidly against him, like one faint with too much joy, “are you going to take me on trust now, after having shown such poor faith in me hitherto?”

She looked up at him with a shy smile.

“I am sure you will tell me of your own accord what it is right I should know.”

“Exactly; and I only regret, dear Gwen, that I was so foolishly sensitive in the beginning as to withhold it. But there are some things it is so hard to tell.”

“Then keep silent, Lawrence.”

“No, darling; you and I will never have any disguises for the future. The poor unhappy woman you saw at Borton Hall was my only sister.”

“Your sister? Oh, Lawrence! can you ever forgive me?” she exclaimed penitently.

“I think I can, if I try very hard,” he answered, with a smile. “And I must own that appearances were sadly against me. But it is a very painful story, Gwen. Poor Mary was married at eighteen to a man she loved with all her heart; and though she began to change from that very day, she was so loyal I never once suspected her secret. But two years after her marriage her mind gave way altogether, and then, for the first time, I discovered that her brutal husband had subjected her to every kind of ill-usage and degradation. She was even scarred by his blows, poor soul! and such a wreck! My very blood runs cold when I think of it. I placed her with a doctor, who was very skilful in the treatment of mental disorders; and, after awhile, she seemed to mend a little, although she had extraordinary and painful delusions, and was so restless that it was impossible to lose sight of her for a moment. In one of these fits she actually came to Borton on foot, and must have wandered about the house, since you saw her.”

“She came into the room where I was, and asked me if I had seen her husband.”

“Exactly. That was one of the most distressing phases of her malady, to my mind: that she was always wanting her husband, and seemed to think me so cruel in keeping her away from him. Her mind was so completely gone that she had no recollection of his ill-usage; and, although this was well for some reasons, it made a good many difficulties. But she could never have actually mentioned me by name when she spoke of her husband?”

“I am afraid I jumped to conclusions a little,” replied Lady Gwendolyn contritely. “Now I know the truth, I see I might have put a different construction on her words.”

Then she told him about her journey to Borton, and how she had received there what she believed to be a full confirmation of her fears. Sir Lawrence was glad she had not condemned him without what seemed to her good proof, although he could hardly understand where a delicate young creature like Lady Gwendolyn had found the courage for such a task.

“And so ill as you were, too, at the time,” he said tenderly.

“Yes; but the hope of seeing or hearing something that would exonerate you made me valiant, Lawrence. I determined to make ‘assurance doubly sure’ before I left you for good, because—because I did want to stay with you so badly.”

“Then why didn’t you?” he asked, just to try her. “Even I should not have known that you were compromising with your conscience in so doing, if you had burned the paper you had picked up, and said nothing about it.”

“That is true; but I could never have kept it to myself; and, what is more, I should have been utterly miserable, especially after baby’s birth.”

“Why more especially after baby’s birth?”

“Because, if it had all come out one of these days, he would not have had a very high opinion of his mother; and, of course, I want baby to respect me.”

She said this with a little air of matronly dignity that was fine to see, and amused and touched him equally.

“I’ll take care Master Baby is brought up to think there never was such a woman as his mother,” he said, smiling. “Boys always imitate their fathers.”

“Do they? I’m so glad!” she answered naïvely. “But, Lawrence, tell me who was it sent you that telegram in Paris?”

“The gentleman with whom poor Mary was living.”

“And where is she now?”

“Dead, poor heart!” he replied solemnly and feelingly. “She left Mr. Jepherson’s house the last time she came to Borton very insufficiently clad, and traveled one whole night. The consequence was that she caught a cold, which settled on her lungs, and only lingered three weeks. I loved her very dearly; but I cannot regret her, Gwen.”

“I suppose it was just an instinct that made her always take refuge at Borton.”

“She knew that I had been mixed up in some way in separating her from her scoundrel of a husband, and this gave her the notion that I was keeping them apart. I could not make her realize any part of the past that would hinder her from dwelling on this one idea. All her other delusions changed; but that was a steady, fixed conviction that all the reasoning in the world would not alter. Her last words were: ‘I am going to my husband, now, in spite of you all.’ And it was strange, Gwen; but Captain Lowe died the very day before she did, so that, perhaps, who can tell? they did meet again in another world.”

Lady Gwendolyn’s face was very sad now as she leaned against her husband’s shoulder.

“Poor Mary! what a miserable fate; and she looked so young still.”

“Four-and-twenty. I will show you her grave when we go to Borton.”

“Don’t tell me, if you would rather not, Lawrence, but I should like to know why you kept this such a profound secret?”

“Because people believed her to be dead, and it seemed to me better so. Captain Lowe would have claimed her directly, if he fancied there was anything to be gained by it. As it was, he often tried to exact money from me.”

“Yes; but you might have confided in me,” she said half reproachfully.

“I was so afraid that my love for you would make me disloyal to poor Mary, and then, if a mere inkling of the truth had come out, Captain Lowe would have left me no peace of my life.”

“But after we were married you knew I could be trusted, Lawrence.”

“If you had questioned me then, I should have told you all; but as you did not do so, I was glad to leave well alone.”

“You wouldn’t have liked me to have any secret from you, Lawrence.”

“No, my love, that is true; at the same time, you must remember that you might have had half a dozen mad relatives, and I should not have known. The fact is”—and his voice changed—“I was terribly sensitive about it, Gwen. I was so afraid you would make a trouble of it, and fancy insanity was hereditary in the Dacre family. My uncle’s eccentricity would have confirmed the impression, and the very idea of a possible fate of this kind for your unborn child would almost have worried you into your grave.”

“I am afraid it would,” she admitted.

“But let us talk of something more cheerful now, Gwen. Who do you think is coming to see you to-morrow?”

“Not Mrs. O’Hara?” said Lady Gwendolyn, looking alarmed.

“A very bad guess. Try again.”

“Pauline?”

“Heaven forbid! Will you give it up?”

“Is it Beatrice Ponsonby?”

“No again.”

“Tell me, then.”

“Your brother, Reginald.”

Lady Gwendolyn changed color.

“Is it worth while?” she asked coldly. “Pauline is sure to take care that we do not keep friends long, in case we should compare notes.”

“You may compare notes as long as you like; you cannot hurt Pauline more than she has hurt herself.”

And Sir Lawrence told his wife the miserable, guilty story, knowing quite well that the very idea of Reginald’s being in trouble would make his generous, impulsive little wife forget her own wrongs in a moment.

And so it was.

“Oh! poor Reggie, how very shameful and wicked! How could she?—how could she?” was all Lady Gwendolyn could say. “She promised me so faithfully she would be a good wife for the future, if I would not tell my brother the truth.”

“And perhaps she meant it all the time, Gwen; but she had got into the habit of these intrigues, and could not live without the excitement. If she had had children she might have been a better woman; but she did not care for Lord Teignmouth from the first, and then he did leave her too much liberty.”

“I told him so once, but he said that a wife who needed watching was not worth keeping. Then she always pretended to be such a prude.”

“She hadn’t that character in the world, I assure you.”

“But Reginald would be the last to hear of that; and if he had, she would have persuaded him that the women were jealous of her, and so tried to injure her with him. An artful woman can so easily manage her husband.”

“Indeed!” said Sir Lawrence, laughing; “that is a bad lookout for me.”

“I am not artful, sir! How dare you speak in that way to baby’s mama?”

“I see baby’s mama is a very important person. I only hope that baby’s papa is not going to be put entirely aside on his account. I begin to fear lest I have a very influential rival near the throne. If the boy is to divide us, instead of drawing us closer together, I shall wish he had never been born.”

“You dear, foolish man!” she said, understanding perfectly the jealous feeling that prompted this speech.

Lord Teignmouth looked very shamefaced when he first presented himself before his sister, but Lady Gwendolyn soon set him at his ease. She put her arms round his neck, and said heartily:

“I am so glad to see you again, dear old fellow! Don’t let us talk about anything disagreeable.”

And as he was very glad to be spared, and knew he should have opportunities of showing what he was not allowed to say, he gave in at once, and covered his embarrassment by asking to see “our heir.”

Two days later Sir Lawrence took his wife to Milworth Abbey, where there were fine rejoicings, we may be sure. The house had been useless to the neighborhood, socially speaking, for years, and every one was glad to welcome a brighter reign.

Sir Lawrence was already known and liked, and Lady Gwendolyn soon won golden opinions from all sorts of people. The poor almost worshiped her. As she often said, since she had lived and nearly lost, she must make others the happier for her happiness, or perhaps Heaven would take her blessings from her, and she had so many now, she had need indeed to be grateful.

THE END.

No. 227 of the New Bertha Clay Library, entitled “The Tie That Binds,” by Bertha M. Clay, is a romance that has many elements of tragedy and holds the reader enthralled all the way through.

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Transcriber’s Notes:

The last two words of page 98 (“last hope”) are a best guess based on an unclear scan.

A table of contents has been added by the transcriber and placed in the public domain.

Obvious typographical errors have been silently corrected.

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Table of Contents

- LOVED AND LOST

- New Bertha Clay Library

- LOVED AND LOST

- LOVED AND LOST.

- CONTENTS

- CHAPTER I.

- CHAPTER II.

- CHAPTER III.

- CHAPTER IV.

- CHAPTER V.

- CHAPTER VI.

- CHAPTER VII.

- CHAPTER VIII.

- CHAPTER IX.

- CHAPTER X.

- CHAPTER XI.

- CHAPTER XII.

- CHAPTER XIII.

- CHAPTER XIV.

- CHAPTER XV.

- CHAPTER XVI.

- CHAPTER XVII.

- CHAPTER XVIII.

- CHAPTER XIX.

- CHAPTER XX.

- CHAPTER XXI.

- CHAPTER XXII.

- CHAPTER XXIII.

- CHAPTER XXIV.

- CHAPTER XXV.

- CHAPTER XXVI.

- Have You Ever Read Mrs. Southworth’s Books?

- Your Time

- GARVICE

- Adventure Stories Detective Stories Western Stories Love Stories Sea Stories

- Transcriber’s Notes:

- THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE