She made a gesture of assent. He drew a long breath, and held out his hand to her.
"Can you not forgive me, Ida? If you knew what the sacrifice cost me, how much I have suffered. See here, dearest"—he drew still closer to her—"let the past go. It shall, I swear! There is a limit to a man's endurance, and I have passed it. I love you, Ida, I want you! Come back with me and let us live for each other, live for love. Dearest, I will teach you to forget the wrong I did you. It's very little I have to offer you, a share in the hard life of a farmer out there in the wilds; but if you were still the mistress of Herondale, instead of poor—"
Half unconsciously she broke in upon his prayer.
"I am still—what I was. I am not poor. My father was a rich man when he died."
Stafford regarded her with surprise, then he moved his hand, as if he were waving away the suggestion of an obstacle.
"I am glad—for your sake, dearest; though for my own I would almost rather that you were as poor as I thought you; that I might work for you. Why do you stand and look at me so hopelessly. What else is there to divide us, dearest?"
Her lips opened, and almost inaudibly she breathed:
"Your honour."
He winced and set his teeth hard.
"My honour!"
"Yes. You have pledged your word, you have made your bargain—the price was paid, I suppose; you say so. Then in honour you belong to—her."
The colour flamed in his face and his eyes grew hot.
"You cast me off—you drive me back to her!" he said, scarcely knowing what he said.
"Yes!" she responded, faintly. "You belong to her—to her only. Not to me, ah, not to me! No, no, do not come near me, do not touch me! I had forgotten—I was mad!—but I have remembered, I am sane now."
Driven almost beyond himself by the sudden revulsion from joy and hope to doubt and despair, racked by the swift stemming of his passion, Stafford's unreasoning anger rose against her: it is always so with the man.
"My God! You send me away—to her! You—you do it coolly, easily enough! Perhaps you have some other reason—someone has stepped into my place—"
It was a cruel thing to say, even in his madness. For a moment she cowered under it, then she raised her white face and looked straight into his eyes.
"And if there has, can you blame me? You cast me aside—you sacrificed me to your father's honour. You had done with me," her voice vibrated with the bitterness which had been her portion for so many dreary months. "Was the world, my life, to cease from that time forth? For you there was—someone else, wealth, rank—for me was there to be nothing, no consolation, no part or lot in life! Yes, thereisone—one who is both good and noble, and—"
She broke down and covering her face with her hands turned away. Stafford stood as if turned to stone; as if he had lost the sense of sight and hearing. Silence reigned between them; the dogs who had been sitting watching them, rose and shivering, whined complainingly, as if they were asking what was amiss.
It was the woman—as always—who first relented and was moved to pity.She moved to the motionless figure and touched him on the arm.
"Forgive me! I—I did not mean to wound you; but—but you drove me too hard! But—but it is true. We cannot undo the past. It isthere, as solid, as unmovable, as that mountain:and it is between us, a wall, a barrier of stone. Nothing can remove it. You—you will remember your honour, Stafford?" Her voice quavered for a moment but she steadied it. "You—you will not lose that, though all else be lost? You will go to her?"
He looked at her, his breath coming thick and painfully.
"My God! you—you are hard—" he broke out at last.
"I—am just! Oh, my dearest, my dearest!" She took his hand and laid it against her cheek, her lips. "Don't you see how much it costs me to send you away? But I must! I must! Go—oh, go now! I—I cannot bear much more!"
His hand—it shook—fell softly, tenderly on her head.
"God forgive me for the wrong I have wrought you, the tears I have caused you!" he said, hoarsely. "Yes, I daresay you're right, and—and I'll go! Let me see you go back to the house—One kiss, the last, the last! Oh, Ida, Ida, life of my life, soul of my soul!"
He caught her to him, and she lay in his arms for a moment, her lips clung to his in one long kiss, then she tore herself away from him and fled to the house.
Stafford went on to The Woodman, where Mr. Groves was surprised, and, it need scarcely be said, overjoyed to see him. To him, the young man was still "Mr. Stafford," and he eyed him with an amazed and respectful admiration; for though Stafford had never been a weakling, he had grown so hard and muscular and altogether "fit" that Mr. Groves could not refrain from expressing his approval.
"Ah, there is nothing like roughing it, Mr. Stafford, sir," he said. "I can tell in a minute when a man's 'hard' right through, and been doing square and honest work. It seems strange to us commoner people that you gentle folks should be so fond of going through all sorts of hardships and perils just for the fun of it; but, after all, it's not to be wondered at, for that's the kind of spirit that has helped Englishmen to make England what it is. But you're looking a little pale and worn to-night, sir. I've no doubt it's the want of dinner. If I'd known you'd been coming—but you know I'll do my best, sir."
He did his best, and Stafford tried to do justice to it; but it was almost impossible to eat. And he checked the almost overmastering desire to drink.
Ida had been right. He knew it, though the thought did not help to allay his bitterness. She had spoken the truth: he was still pledged to Maude. Mr. Falconer had paid the price demanded, and it was not his fault if it had failed to save Sir Stephen from ruin; the sacrifice Stafford had made had, at any rate, saved his father's good name from shame and reproach. Maude's father had performed his part of the bargain; Stafford had still to perform his. Ida was right; she had pointed out to him his duty, and if there was a spark of manliness left in him, he must do it.
He sat over the fire, close over it, as he had done in the backwoods many a night, smoking the old brier pipe that had cheered him in his hours of solitary watching, and thinking with a grim bitterness that it would have been better for him if he had been knocked on the head the night of the raid at Salisbury Plain. To be married to one woman, while he loved another with all his heart and soul: it was a cruel fate. But, cruel as it was, he had to bend to it. He would go straight to London and find Maude, redeem his promise, and save his honour.
Mr. Groves came into the room with a bottle of the port, and Stafford forced himself to show an interest in it and drink a glass or two.
"I suppose you'll be going up to the Villa to-morrow, sir?—I beg your pardon, I mean my lord; and I must apologise for not calling you so."
"Not 'my lord,'" said Stafford. "I have never used the title, Groves. Go up to the Villa? Why should I?" he asked, wearily. "It is closed, isn't it?"
Mr. Groves looked at him with surprise.
"No, sir. Didn't you know? Mr. Falconer bought it; and he and MissFalconer have been staying there. She is there now."
Stafford turned away. Chance was making his hard road straight. After a sleepless night, worse even than some of the worst he had spent in Australia, and after a pretence at breakfast, he went slowly up to the Villa. Last night, as he had held Ida in his arms, something of the old brightness had come back to his face, the old light to his eyes; but he looked haggard and wan now, like a man who had barely recovered from a long and trying illness. He turned on the slope of the terrace and looked down at the lake, lying dark and sullen under a cloudy sky; and it seemed to him typical of his own life, of his own future, in which there seemed not a streak of light. A servant came to meet him. "Yes," he said, "Miss Falconer is in." She was in the morning-room, he thought. Stafford followed him; the man opened the door, and Stafford entered.
Maude was seated at a table writing. She did not turn her head, and he stood looking at her and seeing the record the weary months had left upon her face; and, even in his own misery, he felt some pity for her.
"Maude!" he said in a low voice.
She did not move for a moment, but looked straight before her wistfully, as if she could not trust her ears; then she turned and came towards him, with something like fear on her face. The fear broke up, as it were, and, stretching out her arms, she spoke his name—the accents of love fighting with those of doubt and a joy that dreaded its own greatness.
"Stafford! It is you!"
She pressed her hands to her heart for a moment, then she fell into his arm, half fainting.
"Yes, my father bought the place," said Maude. "I asked him to do so, and he consented at once. I could not have let it pass to strangers. You see, I had been so happy here; it was here that you asked me to be your wife. And father has offered to settle it upon us," she blushed slightly, and her eyes became downcast. "He is no longer—opposed to our marriage; he knows that I would marry you if all the world cried 'No!'"
They had been sitting talking for nearly an hour. She had recovered from the shock of his sudden presence, and was seated beside him—so close that she could touch him with her hand—calm now, but with a glow in her usually pale cheek, a light in her eyes which had been absent for many a weary month past. He had given her, mostly in answer to her eager questions, a very abbreviated account of his life in Australia; telling her less even than he had told Ida; and it is needless to remark, saying nothing of the cause of his hasty return.
"Ah, well," she said, drawing a long breath, "it is all over now, Stafford. Ah, it is good to have you back safe and sound. You are well, are you not? You look pale and thin and—and tired. But I suppose it's the journey. Yes, it is all over; you need not wander any longer; you have come back to me, have you not, Stafford? If you knew how I have missed you, how I have longed for you! And now you will settle down and take your place in the world and be happy! Do you think I shall not make you happy, Stafford? Ah, do not be afraid;" her eyes sought his and her hand stole towards his arm.
He rose and leant against the mantel-shelf.
"I only know that I am quite unworthy of you, Maude," he said, gravely.
She looked up at him and laughed.
"Are you? Who cares! Not I!Ionly know that I love you so dearly that if you were the blackest villain to be found in fiction, it would make no difference to me."
He was filled with shame and self-reproach, and turned away his head that she might not see the shame in his eyes.
"How did you come?" she asked, presently. "If my father were only at home! You could stay with us, then."
"I am staying at The Woodman," he said.
She regarded him with some surprise.
"Last night! Late, do you mean? Did you meet, see anyone?"
There was a dawning suspicion in her eyes, and she regarded his averted face keenly; she noticed that he hesitated and seemed embarrassed.
"No one you know," he replied, feeling that it was impossible for him to speak Ida's name.
"How do you know?" she asked, with a curious smile. "Who was it?"
"I met Miss Heron of Herondale," he said, trying to speak casually, and wondering what she would say, hoping fervently that she would ask no more questions.
The blood rushed to her face, her eyes flashed and her lips tightened; but she did not speak, and moved away to the window, standing there looking out, but seeing nothing. He had gone toherthe moment he had returned: what did it mean? But she dared not ask; for she knew instinctively how slight was the chain by which she held him. With an effort she restrained the rage, the fierce jealousy, which threatened to burst forth in violent reproaches and accusation; and after a minute or two she turned to him, outwardly calm and smiling.
"Have you made any plans, Stafford?" she asked. "My father was speaking of your return; he thought of writing to you. Dearest, there must be no reserve between us now—now that you have come back. See, I speak quite frankly. My father thinks—thinks that our marriage should take place at once. He has withdrawn his objection, and—and you will not thwart him, Stafford? It is hard for me to have to say this; but—but you will understand."
"I understand," he said in a low voice. "I am grateful to your father. Our marriage shall take place as soon as you please. It is for you to fix the date, Maude."
She nestled against him and touched his coat with her lips.
"I am ashamed of myself," she murmured; "but, ah, well! love casteth out shame."
A servant knocked at the door.
"The horse is round, miss," he announced.
"I was going for a ride," she said; "but I will send the horse away—unless you will ride with me. You will, Stafford?"
"Certainly," he said, glad of the interruption to thistête-à-têtewhich had been to him a positive torture.
"I will not be five minutes," she said, brightly. "You'd like to go over the house? They shall bring you something to drink in the smoking-room, or here, if you like: you are lord and master."
She went up to her room, and, when she had rung for her maid, paced up and down feverishly. He had gone to that girl before he had come to her! She was racked with hate and jealousy, which was all the harder to bear because she knew she must hide them within her bosom, that no word or look of hers must let him see that she knew of her rival. Some time, after they were marred, she would tell him: but not till she was safe. She got into her habit quickly and went down to him. He was standing where she had left him, and as she entered the room she saw before he had time to turn to her with a smile, how haggard and harassed he looked.
"You have been quick," he said.
"Yes; I am learning one of my wifely duties: not to keep my husband waiting." They went out, and Pottinger, standing by the horses, touched his hat and grew red with joy at sight of his master.
"Well, Pottinger! Glad to see you!" said Stafford; and he was genuinely glad. "You're looking well, and the horse is too. Halloo! you're put the side-saddle on Adonis," he added, as he went up and patted the horse.
Pottinger touched his hat again.
"Yes, sir; Miss Falconer's been riding him, and I did not know that I ought to change the saddle. I can do so in a minute—"
"No, no," said Stafford; "never mind. I will ride the hunter, as you have the saddle on him. You like Adonis, Maude?"
"Oh, yes," she replied. "Though I'm not quite sure he likes me," she added, with a laugh.
Stafford put her up, and noticed, with some surprise, that Adonis seemed restless and ill at ease, and that he shivered and shrank as he felt Maude on his back.
"What is the matter with him?" he said. "He seems fidgety. Does the saddle fit?"
"Yes, sir," said Pottinger, with a half-nervous glance at Maude, followed by the impassive expression of the trained servant who cannot speak out.
"He is troublesome sometimes," said Maude; "but I can manage him quite easily."
"Oh, yes," assented Stafford; "he is as quiet as a lamb; but he is highly bred and as highly strung."
As they were starting, Pottinger murmured:
"Don't curb him too tightly, miss."
Maude ignored the warning; and she and Stafford rode out. The rain had ceased, the clouds had passed away, and in the joy of his nearness, her spirits rose, a feeling of triumph swelled in her bosom.
"How little I thought yesterday, even this morning, that we should be riding side by side, Stafford," she said. "How little I thought I should have you back again, my own, my very own! Don't all these months you've been away seem like a dream to you? They do to me." She drew a long breath. "Let us ride across the dale."
"You will find it wet there, had you not better keep to the road?"
"No, no," she said; "Adonis is dying for a gallop; see how he is fretting."
Stafford looked at the horse curiously. He was champing his bit and throwing up his head in a nervous, agitated manner which Stafford had never seen him display before.
"I can't make the horse out," he said, more to himself than Maude."Perhaps he'll be all right after a gallop."
They crossed the road at a trot, which was an uneven one on Adonis's part, and got on the moor. Maude, still in high spirit, still buoyed up by her feeling of triumph, talked continuously; telling him some of the London news, planning out their future. They would have a house in London, Stafford should take his proper place in the world; they would step back to the high position which was his by right, as a peer of the realm. Stafford was scarcely listening. A question was haunting him, a question which he could not thrust from him: he was going to marry Maude Falconer, going to take the hard and stony road of duty which Ida, in her noble way, had pointed out to him. Ought he not to tell Maude about Ida and his broken engagement to her; would it not be better for both of them, for all of them, if he were to do so? He would have to tell her that he could not live at the Villa; she would want to know the reason; would it not be better to tell her?
He raised his head to begin; when suddenly he saw, going up the hill in front of them, a horse and horsewoman. She was walking up slowly, and, long before her figure stood out against the clear sky, he saw that it was Ida. It is scarcely an exaggeration to say that his heart stood still. That she should have appeared before him in his sight, at such a moment, while he was riding beside his future wife—his future wife!—filled him with bitterness. His face must have paled, or Maude must have seen him start, for she looked at him and then turned her head and looked in the direction in which his eyes were fixed. She recognised Ida instantly; the colour rushed to her face; her hand tightened on her rein spasmodically; for a moment she felt inclined to turn aside, to ride away, escape from the girl she hated and loathed. And then she was moved by another impulse; the demon of jealousy whispered: "This is the moment of your triumph; why not enjoy it to the full; why not let her feel the bitterness of defeat? There is your rival! Let her see with her own eyes your triumph and your happiness." The temptation was too great for her, and she yielded to it.
"Who is that riding up the hill?" she said, controlling her voice admirably. "It is Miss Heron, is it not?"
"Yes, it is," he said, as impassively as he could.
Her lips curled scornfully at his assumption of indifference. "I have seen her and met her," she said, "but I have not been introduced to her. Let us overtake her, and you can introduce me. I should like to know her."
He looked straight before him, his face grave and set.
"Is it worth while?" he said in a low voice. "Some other time—"
"Why not now?" she asked. "We can catch her quite easily."
The moment had come for him to tell her.
"Not now," he said, huskily. "I have something to tell you, Maude; something you ought to know before—before you make Miss Heron's acquaintance."
She turned to him with a low laugh.
"Do you think I don't know?" she said, between her teeth. "I have know all along! I read the letter you wrote to her—I got it—stole it, if you like—from Pottinger. I have known all along—do you not think I have been very patient, very discreet? Even now I bear no malice. I can forget the past, forget and forgive. Why should I not, seeing that I am assured of your love and good faith? You will see how completely I forget, how little importance I attach to your fancy for the girl; a fancy which I am sure you have quite outgrown. Oh, I can trust you! We will join Miss Heron by all means."
His face was dark and heavy.
"Do not, Maude, until you've heard all," he began, but with a scornful laugh that yet had something doubting and desperate in it, she sent Adonis on. He sprang forward nervously and shivering under a stroke from her whip, and swiftly lessened the distance between him and Rupert, who heard his approach before Ida did, and who neighed a welcome. Ida turned and saw who was following her, saw Stafford just behind, and gathering her reins together she rode Rupert quickly to the top of the hill.
"Miss Heron!" cried Maude, in a voice of covert insolence, but almost open triumph. "Miss Heron, stop, please!"
Ida did stop for a moment, then, feeling that it was impossible for her to meet them, that day, at any rate, she let Rupert go again. By this time, Stafford had almost gained Maude's side. His face was dark with anger, his teeth clenched tightly. He knew that Maude intended to flaunt her possession of him before Ida. In a low but perfectly distinct voice, he said:
"Stop, Maude! Do not follow her." She looked over her shoulder at him, her face flushed, her eyes flashing.
"Why not?" she demanded, scornfully. "Is she afraid, or is it you who are afraid? Both, perhaps? We shall see!"
Before he could catch her rein she had struck Adonis twice with the sharp, cutting whip, and with a shake of his head and a snort of rage and resentment, he stood on his haunches for a moment, then leapt forward and began to race down the hill. Stafford saw that the horse had bolted, either from fear or anger; he knew that it would only increase Maude's peril if he galloped in pursuit behind her; he, therefore, checked his horse and made, in a slanting line, for a point towards which he judged Adonis would go. Maude was swaying in her saddle, in which she could only keep herself by clutching at the pommel; it seemed every moment as if she must fall, as if the horse itself must fall and throw her like a stone down the steep hill.
Ida, the moment she had got over the top of the hill, had ridden quickly, and, of course, quite fearlessly and safely, and had got Rupert so well in hand, as usual, that when she heard the clatter behind her, and, turning, saw the peril in which Maude had put herself, she was able to pull Rupert up. It was almost a repetition of what had occurred the other day; but this time Maude Falconer's peril was infinitely greater; for her horse was half mad and tearing down the steep hill-side, rendered doubly dangerous by the loose stones, and was all too evidently indifferent whether he stood or fell. And yet another risk lay just below; for William had been digging in that spot for stones to mend the bank, and even if the maddened horse saw the hole, it was more than probable that he would not be able to pull up in time.
Such moments as these form the criterion of true courage. There was only one way in which Ida could save, or attempt to save, the white-faced woman who was drawing towards her at breakneck speed. What she would have to attempt to do would be to ride straight for the oncoming horse, swerve almost as she reached it, and keep side by side with it until she could succeed either in turning it away from that horrible hole, or stop it by throwing it. She did not hesitate for a moment.
It may be said in all truth that at that moment she forgot that the woman whose life she was going to save was Maude Falconer; she did not realise the fact—or, if she did, she was indifferent to it—that she was risking her own life to save the woman who had robbed her of Stafford. There was the life to be saved, and that was enough for Ida. She slipped her foot almost out of the stirrup, felt Rupert's mouth firmly but gently, leant forward and whispered a word to him, which it is very likely he understood—perhaps he saw all the game even before she did—and, with an encouraging touch of her hand, she let him go.
He sprang forward like an arrow from the bow. As they drew near the flying horse, Ida shifted her whip to her left hand, so that her right should be free, and, leaning as far in the saddle as she could with safety, she made a snatch at Adonis's rein at the moment she came alongside him. She would have caught the rein, she might have stopped the horse or turned it aside—God alone knows!—but as her fingers almost grasped it, Maude, steadied in her seat by the nearness of her would-be rescuer, raised her whip and struck Ida across the bosom and across the outstretched hand. The blow, in its finish, fell on Adonis's reeking neck. With a snort he tore away from the other horse and swept onwards, with Maude once again swaying in her saddle. Ida gazed at her in speechless terror for an instant, then, as if she could look no longer, she flung up her arm across her eyes.
A moment afterwards a cry, a shrill scream, that rang in her ears for many a day afterwards, rose above the clatter of Adonis's hoofs, and before the cry had died away horse and rider had fallen with awful force into and across the hole. Then came a dead silence, broken only by the sound of the horse's iron shoes as he kicked wildly and pawed in a vain attempt to rise. Ida rode up, and flinging herself to the ground, tried to approach the struggling animal. But, indeed, it was horror and not fear that struck her motionless for a moment; for horse and rider were mixed in awful confusion, and already Maude Falconer's graceful form was stained with blood, and battered by the madly kicking animal, now in its death-throes.
An instant after, before she could recover from her paralysis of terror—the whole affair was one of a moment and had passed as quickly as a flitting cloud—Stafford was by her side, and at work extricating woman from horse. It was not an easy task, for though Adonis was now dead, a part of Maude's body lay under his shoulder; but with utmost herculean strength Stafford succeeded in getting her clear, and lifted her out of the hole on to the grass. Kneeling beside him, Ida, calm now, but trembling, raised Maude's head on her knee and wiped the blood from the beautiful face. Its loveliness was not marred, there was no bruise or cut upon it, the blood having flown from a wound just behind the temple.
Stafford ran to the brook for some water and tried to force a few drops through the clenched teeth, while Ida bathed the white brow. Suddenly a tremor ran through him, and he put his hand over Maude's heart. It was quite still; he bent his cheek to her lips; no breath met them. For a moment or two he could not speak, then he stayed Ida's ministering hand, and looking up at her, said:
"It is of no use. She is dead!"
The ball which Lady Clansford always gave about the middle of the season is generally a very brilliant affair; but this year it was more brilliant and, alas! more crowded than usual; for Lord Clansford was connected, as everybody knows, with the great Trans-African Company, and, as also everybody knows, that company had recovered from the blow dealt it by the rising of the natives, and was now flourishing beyond the most sanguine expectations of its owners; the Clansford coffers, not to mention those of many other persons, were overflowing, and Lord Clansford could afford a somewhat magnificent hospitality.
Howard, as he made his way up the crowded stairs, smiled cynically to himself as he caught sight of a little knot of financiers who stood just outside the great doors of thesalon. They were all there—Griffenberg, Wirsch, the Beltons, Efford, and Fitzharford; and they were all smiling and in the best of humours, presenting by their appearance a striking contrast to that which they had worn when he had seen them on the night when the ruin of the company had been conveyed in that fatal cablegram. Having succeeded at last in forcing an entrance, and bowing over the hand of his noble hostess, which must have sadly ached, and returned her mechanical words of welcome with a smile as galvanic as her own, Howard sidled his way along the wall—a waltz was in progress—and collided against the "beautiful and bounteous" Bertie, who was mopping his brow and looking round despairingly for his partner.
"Halloo, Howard!" he exclaimed. "Pretty old scrimmage, isn't it? Should have thought your languid grace would have kept out of this sight. I've given a dance to a girl, but dash my best necktie if I can find her: might as well look for a needle in a bottle of hay—as if any fellow would be such a fool as to put a needle in such a place. I'm jolly mad at losing her, I can tell you, for she's the prettiest girl in the room, and I had to fight like a coal-heaver to get a dance from her. And now I can't find her: just my luck!"
"What is the name of the prettiest girl in the room?" asked Howard, languidly.
"Oh, it's the new beauty, of course," replied Bertie, with a superior little shrug at Howard's ignorance. "It's Miss. Heron of Herondale, the great heiress."
Howard pricked up his ears, but maintained his languid and half-indifferent manner.
"Miss Heron of Herondale," he said in his slow voice. "Don't think I've met her."
"No? Dessay not. She doesn't go out much, and Lady Clansford thinks it's rather a feather in her cap getting her here to-night. When you see her you won't say I've over-praised her. She's more than pretty, and she'd be the bright and particular star of the season if she didn't keep in her shell so much."
"Herondale," said Howard, musingly. "That's the place near the Villa, isn't it? I don't remember anyone of her name as having been amongst the company there."
"No," said the omniscient Bertie. "She was living in retirement with her father then; but Stafford must have known her—made her acquaintance. Don't you remember that she was present when poor Miss Falconer met with her fatal accident?"
Howard remembered very well, but he said "Ah, yes!" as if the fact had just been recalled to him.
"Her father died and left her a hatful of money—that's ever so many months ago—and now she's come up to London; and I tell you, Howard, that it is with her as it was with the friend of our school-boy days: 'I came, "I was seen," I conquered!' Everybody is mad about her. She is staying with some country people called the Vaynes, people who would have passed, like a thirdentrée, unnoticed; but they are deluged with invitations, and 'All on account of Eliza.'"
"Do not be vulgar, Bertie," said Howard, rebukingly.
"Well it was vulgar" admitted Bertie, "especially applied to such an exquisite creature as Miss Heron—Oh there she is with young Glarn! They say that he is more than ready to lay his ducal coronet at her feet—confound the young beggar!—but she doesn't give him the least encouragement to do so. Look! she doesn't appear to be listening to him, though he's talking for all he's worth. And it's the same with all of us: we're all dying with love for her, and for all she cares, we may die!"
Howard looked across the room and caught a glimpse of a tall, slim figure, a pale, ivory-tinted face with soft and silky black hair, dressed in the simplest fashion, and dark, violet eyes half hidden by their long lashes. It was a lovely face and something more—an impressive one: it was a face, once seen, not easily forgotten. Perhaps it was not its beauty, but a certain preoccupied expression, a sadness in the eyes and in the curve of the expressive lips, which made it so haunting a one. She was exquisitely dressed, with a suggestion of mourning in the absence of diamonds and a touch of pale violet in the black lace frock.
"She is very beautiful," said Howard; "and I can condole with you sincerely on the loss of your dance."
"Yes, it's nearly over now," said Bertie, with a sigh. "Talking ofStafford," he said, after a minute, "when did you hear from him last?"
"To-day," replied Howard. "I have his letter in my pocket."
"Still out in the backwoods?" asked Bertie. "Poor old chap! awful piece of luck for him! If his father had only gone on living and waited until that blessed company had come right side uppermost, he'd have been a millionaire. Look at Griffenberg and the rest of 'em!" he nodded towards the group of financiers; "they're simply rolling in money, rolling in it."
"Yes, he's still in the backwoods, as you call it," responded Howard; "and from what he says I should think he's having a pretty hard time of it; though, of course, he doesn't complain: there are some men still left who don't complain." There was a pause, during which he had been thinking deeply, then he said: "So Stafford knew Miss Heron, did he?"
Bertie looked mysterious and lowered his voice.
"Yes. Look here, old chap, I shouldn't say this to anyone but you; but you are Stafford's great and only chum, and I know I can speak safely; to tell you the truth—"
"Now you are going to tell me anything but the truth," murmured Howard, with a sigh of resignation.
"Oh, no, I'm not," retorted Bertie. "What there is of it is the truth and nothing but the truth. It isn't much. But I've a kind of idea that Stafford knew our new beauty better than we think. Do you remember how he used to leave our party and go off by himself? Not like Stafford, that, was it? And one of our fellows remarked to me that one day coming home from a ride he saw Stafford riding with a lady. He couldn't swear to him, but—well, Stafford's hard to mistake. Then, again, how was it he and Miss Heron were in at Maude Falconer's death; and why did he bolt off to Australia again directly after the funeral? And why is it that she keeps us all at arm's length, even that confounded Glarn?"
Howard's eyes grew sharp; but he smiled languidly, as he said:
"You ought to edit a riddle book, Bertie, my son. I think we should get across the room now. I should be greatly obliged if you would introduce me to Miss Heron."
"All right," said Bertie, "come along! But I warn you, you'll only meet with a cold reception; just a smile and a word and then she'll look away as if she'd forgotten your existence, and had not the least desire to remember it."
"Oh, I'm used to that," said Howard. "Lead on."
As they crossed the room, Howard's acute brain was hard at work. There was something in Stafford's conduct, a tone in his letters which Howard could never understand; but now, in the light of Bertie's mysterious communication, he thought he discerned a solution of the problem over which he had pondered for many an hour. Stafford had been unhappy during the whole of his engagement to poor Maude; he had exiled himself again immediately after her death, though, as Howard knew, he was well enough off now to return to England and to live, at any rate, in a quiet way. If there was anything in Bertie's suggestion—Howard pursed his lips with an air of determination. If there was anything, then he would find it out and act accordingly. Stafford's happiness was very precious to Howard, and in the quiet, resolute, cynical way characteristic to him, he resolved that if that happiness lay in the hands of this beautiful girl with the sad eyes and lips, he, Howard, would do his best to persuade her to yield it up.
His reception was certainly not encouraging. Ida glanced at him, and returned his bow with a slight inclination of her head, and then looked away as if she had done all that could be demanded of her; and it was with a faint surprise, perceptible in her face, that she heard Howard say, in his slow, and rather drawling voice:
"There is a conservatory behind that glass door, Miss Heron; it is not very far from the madding crowd, but it must be cooler than here. Will you let me take you to it?"
She hesitated for a moment, but something in the steady regard ofHoward's calm and sleepy eyes impressed her.
"Very well," she said; "but I think I'm engaged for this next dance, and I must not go far away. I have already broken two or three engagements."
"In that case you can come without hesitation," he said. "It is the first crime that costs a pang, having passed that the downward course is easy and painless."
He led her to a seat, and with the cool determination which Stafford always admired in him, began at once; for he did not wish to give her time to slip on her woman's armour; he intended to strike quickly, unexpectedly, so that she should not be able to conceal the effect of the blow.
"Almost as hot as in Australia," he said, languidly, but watching her out of the tail of his eye. "I suppose you were never there, Miss Heron? Nor have I been; but I've got a letter in my pocket from a very great friend of mine who is roughing it on a cattle-run, and he has so often described the country to me, that I almost feel as if I knew it. By the way, I think you know him. He is my dearest and closest friend— Stafford Orme, as I always call him and think of him; of course I am speaking of Lord Highcliffe."
The problem was solved: he saw her face suddenly flush, and then as suddenly grow pale. So sharp had been the blow, its effect so overwhelming, that her fan fell from her hand. Howard, as he restored it to her, seized the opportunity of looking her full in the face, and assurance was made doubly sure.
This girldidhold his friend Stafford's happiness in her hand.
Ida was silent for a moment, because she knew she could not control her voice, could not keep it steady; then, with a quickened breath, she said:
"Yes, I knew Mr. Orme—Lord Highcliffe."
"Then I hope you liked him," he said, mercilessly; for there was no time for mercy; some idiot of a dancing-man would come and take her from him the next minute. "I express the hope, because I myself like and admire him very much indeed. He is a splendid fellow, and one of those instances of a good man struggling with adversity. Are you fond of poetry, Miss Heron?"
Ida's bosom was heaving, she was fighting for calm. She knew now who it was with whom she was speaking; it was the friend, the cynical Mr. Howard, of whom Stafford had told her; she had not caught his name at the introduction. She regarded him with intense interest, and inclined her head by way of assent.
"I never think of my friend, Lord Highcliffe, without recalling those significant lines of William Watson's." He looked at her; and be it said that his eyes were fine and impressive ones when he showed them plainly. "These are the lines:
"'I do not ask to have my fillOf wine, of love, or fame.I do not for a little illAgainst the gods exclaim.
"'One boon of fortune I implore,With one petition kneel:At least caress me not beforeThou break me on thy wheel!'"
Her lip quivered and her long lashes concealed her eyes.
"They are fine lines," she said.
"They fit my friend Lord Highcliffe's case to a T. He was for a time the spoiled darling of fortune; she caressed him as she caresses few men—and now she is breaking him on her wheel; and the caresses, of course, make the breaking all the harder to bear. He writes most interesting letters—I don't know whether you care about farming and cattle-raising and that kind of thing; for my own part I am sublimely ignorant of such matters. I can lay my hand upon my heart and say I know a cow from a horse, but nothing shall induce me to go further. If you are interested, I would venture to offer to show you one of his letters; there is nothing in them of a private character."
Her heart beat still more quickly; he saw the eager light flash in her eyes; and his hand went to his breast coat-pocket; then he said, blandly:
"I will bring one next time we meet. Are you going—where are you going to-morrow, Miss Heron? I, too, shall be going there probably?"
She put her hand to her lips with a little nervous gesture: she was disappointed, she thought he was going to show her a letter, then and there.
"I am going to Lady Fitzharford's to-morrow afternoon to try over some music with her," she said, hesitatingly.
"Ah, yes; Lady Fitzharford is a good friend of mine," he said. "Shall you be there at, say, four?"
"Yes," said Ida in a low voice. "Did you say that Mr. Orme—LordHighcliffe is well?"
"Oh, yes; he is all right now," replied Howard; "he has been ill—a fever of some kind or other, I believe—but he has recovered; he is a monster of strength, as you may have heard. But I am afraid he is very unhappy: something on what he calls his mind—he is not very intellectual, you know—"
Ida shot an indignant glance at him which made Howard chuckle inwardly.
—"But the best, the noblest of good fellows, I assure you, Miss Heron. I'd give anything to see him happy. Ah, here comes a gentleman with hurried gait and distracted countenance; he is looking for his partner; alas! it is you! We meet, then, at Lady Fitzharford's to-morrow. I will bring my friend's letter; but I do sincerely hope it won't bore you!"
He bowed his adieux and left her, and left the house; for the ball had no further interest for him. All the way home he pondered over the case. That she loved Stafford, he had not the very least doubt; her eyes, her sudden blushes and colour, her voice had betrayed her.
"He has loved her all the time; and I am a purblind ass not to have seen it!" he said to himself, with cynical self-contempt, as he climbed up to his rooms.
They were modest but comfortable rooms in Picadilly—and he struck a match before he opened the door; but it was not necessary for him to have got a light, for there was one in the room already, and by it he saw a long-limbed figure which had been sitting in his easy-chair, but which rose and exclaimed:
"Howard!"
Howard held his breath for a moment, then said, with exaggerated calm.
"I'm glad you found the cigars and the whiskey, Stafford. Have you been waiting long: sorry to keep you."
Howard laughed as he wrung his friend's hand.
"I thought I should surprise you, old man; but I flattered myself," said Stafford.
"Nothing surprises me; but I'll admit to being rather pleased at seeing you," drawled Howard, pushing him gently buck in the chair. "Have you—er—walked from Australia, or flown?"
Stafford stared.
"Oh, I see! You mean I came so quickly on my letter? I started directly after I posted it, but lost the mail at Southampton. I—I got a restless fit, and was obliged to come."
"Got it now?" drawled Howard. "Or perhaps the journey has cooled you down. Have you eaten? I can get something—"
"Yes, yes," said Stafford, rather impatiently. "Got dinner at the hotel. I came on here at once: heard you'd gone to a dance, and thought I'd wait. I want you to do something for me, Howard—I'll tell you all my news some other time—not that there's much to tell: I'm well and nourishing, as you see. I want you to go down to Bryndermere. I dare not go myself—not yet. I want you to get all the information you can about—about a lady: Miss Heron of Herondale—"
"How very strange!" said Howard innocently. "Do you know, I have just had the pleasure of meeting a Miss Heron of Herondale—"
Stafford sprang to his feet.
"Where?" he demanded hotly.
"At Lady Clansford's ball, which I have just left. May I ask why you are so interested in Miss Heron as to send me on such a mission?"
"I love her," said Stafford briefly. "I can not live without her—I've tried, and I've failed. I've loved her since—oh, I can't tell you! I want to know what she is doing. I want to know if she has forgotten me; if there is any hope for me!"
Howard looked at him compassionately, and whistled softly.
"My dear old man," he said, with an air of reluctance, "you fly rather high! The lady you speak of is the belle of the present season; she is the admired of all admirers; belted earls, to say nothing of noble dukes, are at her feet. She was the star of the ball which I have just left. If I may say so, I think you were very unwise to leave such a peerless pearl to be snapped up—"
Stafford turned away from him and stifled a groan.
"I might have know it," he said. "The belle of the season! Well, why not? There is no one more beautiful, no one more sweet. Who am I that she should remember me? What am I—"
"Rather a foolish young man, if you ask me," said Howard. "If I'd been in love with such a peerless creature, I shouldn't have left her to go tramping after cattle in Australia."
"What else could I do?" exclaimed Stafford, sternly. "Have you forgotten that I was not set free, that when—when death"—his voice dropped—"set me free, that it was no time to speak of love to another woman? I was obliged to go; but I've came back—too late, I suppose! Don't say any more; let us talk of something else: you are looking well. Howard."
"Yes, it's no use crying over spilt milk," said Howard, with a sigh. "Oh, I'm all right. Look here, I'll put you up to-night; we're got a spare room. Now, mix yourself another drink and light up another cigar—not bad, are they—and tell me all you've been doing."
* * * * *
At a quarter to four the following day Howard put in his appearance atLady Fitzharford's house in Eaton Square.
"Oh, I'm so glad you've come," she said: everybody was pleased to see Howard; "you are just the man I want. That sweet creature, Miss Heron, is coming here directly to try over some songs with me—I'm going to sing at that Bazaar, you know—and as you know something of music—is there anything you don't know, Mr. Howard?—you can give us your opinion."
"With the greatest pleasure, my dear lady," responded Howard; "but on two conditions: one, that you don't take my opinion; the other, that you leave me alone with Miss Heron, directly she comes, for a quarter of an hour."
Lady Fitzharford stared at him.
"Are you going to propose to her?" she asked, with a smile.
"No," he replied; "I am tired of proposing."
"Well, I don't think she would accept you," said Lady Fitzharford, "she has had the most wonderful offers; she has refused Lord Edwin, the Bannerdales' son and heir, and, I believe, the Duke of Glarn—"
"I know, I know!" said Howard, more quickly than usual. "I can hear her on the stairs. Oh, vanish, my dear lady, an' you love me!"
Lady Fitzharford had scarcely left the room, laughing, and not a little puzzled, before the servant admitted Ida. She was pale, and the look of sadness in her eyes was even more palpable than on the preceding night. She blushed for an instant as she gave her hand to Howard.
"Lady Fitzharford has gone to get her music, Miss Heron," he said; "she bade me make her excuses; she will be here presently. It is so good of you to remember our appointment! When I came to think it over, I was quite ashamed, do you know, at the obtrusive way in which I pressed the subject of my friend, Lord Highcliffe's condition, upon you. But mind, though, I do think you would feel interested in his letter. He has a knack, unintellectual as he is"—Ida rose readily to the fly again and flashed a momentary glance of indignation at him from her violet eyes—"a child-like way of describing scenes and incidents in a kind of graphic style which—What an idiot I am!" he broke off to exclaim, he had been feeling in his pocket; "I have actually left the letter at home! Please forgive me. But perhaps you will regard my lapse of memory as affording you a happy escape."
Ida's lips trembled and her eyes became downcast. Disappointment was eloquently depicted on her face.
"No, I am sorry," she said. "I—I should have liked to have seen the letter."
"Would you really?" he purred, penitently, as she turned away to the window. "Then I will go and get it; my rooms are only a short distance."
"Oh, pray, don't trouble," she said, so faintly that Howard found it difficult not to smile.
"Not at all," he said, politely, and left the room.
As he went down the stairs he glanced at his watch, and muttered:
"Now, if the young idiot isn't up to time—"
At that moment there was a knock at the hall-door, the servant opened it, and Stafford entered with a gloomy countenance and a reluctant gait.
"I've come," he said, rather morosely; "though I don't know why you should have insisted upon my doing so—or what good it will do me to hear about her," he added, in a low voice, as they followed the servant up the stairs.
As the man touched the handle of the door, Howard said:
"Go in, my dear fellow; I've left my pocket-handkerchief in my overcoat in the hall: back in a moment."
With a frown of annoyance, Stafford hesitated and looked after him; then, with a shrug of his shoulders, he obeyed and entered the room.
They uttered no cry of surprise, of joy. They stood for a moment looking at each other with their hearts in their eyes. It was the moment that bridged over all the weary months of waiting, of longing, of doubts and fears, of hope that seemed too faint for hope and but a mockery of despair.
He had no need to ask her if she loved him, her face was eloquent of the truth; and her eyes reflected the love that glowed in his. He had got hold of her hand before she knew it, had drawn her to him, and, utterly regardless of the fact that he was in a strange house, that they might be interrupted any moment, he kissed her passionately with all the passion that had been stored up for so long.
"Ida," he said, as he bent over her and pressed her to him, "I have come back, I cannot live without you—ah, but you know that, you know that. Is it too late? It is not too late?"
"No; it is not too late," she whispered. "I—I did not know whether you would come. But I have been waiting; I should have waited all my life. But the time has been very long, Stafford!"
* * * * *
At the end of the quarter of an hour for which Howard had bargained, Lady Fitzharford opened the door of the inner room softly, so softly, that seeing Miss Heron in the arms of a stalwart young man, and apparently quite content to be there, her ladyship discreetly closed the door again, and going round by the inner room found Mr. Howard seated on the stairs. She looked at him with amazement, well-nigh bewilderment.
"Are you mad?" she exclaimed, in a whisper.
Howard smiled at her blandly.
"No," he said, with a backward jerk of his head, "but they are. I'm told it's a delicious kind of madness worth all your sanity. Do not let us disturb them. Come and sit down beside me until the time is up," he glanced at his watch; "they have still three minutes."
With a suppressed laugh she sat down beside him.
"You ought to be ashamed of yourself," she said, "to play me such a trick. But, oh, how happy they look!"
"I am ashamed of myself, my dear, lady," he said; "but I should have been more ashamed of myself if I hadn't. Do they look happy? We will go in and see presently. It will be my great reward. But I should like to give them another five minutes, dear lady, for I assure you, on my word of honour, that I was once young myself."