If everybody was not enjoying himself at the Villa it certainly was not the fault of the host, Sir Stephen Orme. Howard, as he drew his chair up beside Stafford, when the ladies had left the room after dinner, and the gentlemen had begun to glance longingly at the rare Chateau claret and the Windermere port, made a remark to this effect:
"Upon my word, Staff, it is the most brilliant house-party which I have ever joined; and as to your father in his character of host—Well, words fail to express my admiration."
Stafford glanced at his father at the head of the table and nodded. Sir Stephen had been the life and soul and spring of the dinner; talking fashionable gossip to Lady Fitzharford on one side of him, and a "giddy girl of twenty" on the other; exchanging badinage with "Bertie," and telling deeply interesting stories to the men; and he was now dragging reluctant laughter from the grim Baron Wirsch and the almost grimmer Griffenberg, as he saw with one eye that the wine was circulating, and with the other that no one was being overlooked or allowed to drop into dullness.
"A most marvellous man! Nearly all the morning he was closeted with the financiers; in the afternoon he went for a ride with Lady Clansford; he was in attendance at the solemn function of afternoon tea; he played croquet—and played it well—at half-past five; at six I saw him walking round the grounds with the Effords and the Fitzharfords, and now he is laughing and talking with theabandonof a boy of five-and-twenty, while the boy of five-and-twenty sits here as grave and silent as if he had been working like a horse—or a Sir Stephen Orme—instead of fooling about the lake with the most beautiful woman in the party."
"And his friend has spent the day in a deck-chair on the terrace," retorted Stafford.
"At any rate, I have been out of mischief," said Howard. Then he remembered his wager with Maude Falconer, and added, rather remorsefully: "At least I hope so. By the way, don't you echo my expression of opinion that Miss Falconer is the most beautiful woman here—or elsewhere?"
Stafford woke from the reverie into which he nearly always dropped whenHoward was talking, and nodded indifferently.
"Oh, yes; she is lovely, of course."
"How good of you, how kind and gracious!" retorted Howard, ironically. "So my prince deigns to approve of her? And you also condescended to admit that she is—er—rather clever?"
"I daresay," said Stafford. "I've seen so little of her. She seems to me ratherblaséand cold."
Howard nodded.
"Yes; but the worst of it is, you can't count upon that kind of girl: they are apt to warm up sometimes, and quite unexpectedly: and when they do they—well, they boil like a geyser or a volcano. And then—well, then it is wise to get out of reach. I once knew a woman who was considered to be as cold as charity—or a rich relation—but who caught fire one day and burnt up the man who ignited her. Of course this is my delicate way of saying: 'Beware, oh, my prince!'"
Stafford smiled. Miss Falconer's nature was a matter of profound indifference to him. There was only one woman on whom he could bestow a thought, and he was thinking of her now, wondering when he should see her, whether he might dare to tell her of his love again, to ask her for her answer.
Once or twice his father looked across at him, and nodded and smiled as if he loved to see him, and wanted to speak to him; and Stafford smiled and nodded back, as if he understood.
When the men rose to go to the drawing-room, Sir Stephen caught him up at the door, and laid a hand upon his arm.
"Happy, dear boy?" he asked in a low voice, full of affection. "I've seen scarcely anything of you. No, no, I'm not complaining! It was understood that you were to have a free hand—but—but I've missed you! Never mind; this crowd will have gone presently, and then—ah, then we'll have a jolly time to ourselves! Things are going well," he added, with a significant smile, as he glanced at Wirsch and Griffenberg, who, well-fed and comfortable, were in front of them.
"I'm glad, sir," said Stafford.
Sir Stephen smiled, but checked a sigh and a shrug of the shoulders.
"Yes, my little schemes are flourishing; but"—he looked at the financiers again—"they are rather a hard team to drive!"
As Stafford entered the drawing-room, he heard Lady Clansford enquiring for Miss Falconer.
"We want her to sing, Mr. Orme, and I cannot find her."
"I think she is on the terrace," said Bertie, who always seemed to know where everybody was.
Stafford went out by one of the windows, and saw Maude Falconer pacing up and down at the end of the terrace. She was superbly dressed, and as he looked at her, he involuntarily admired the grace of her movements. Mr. Falconer was walking with bent head and hands behind his back; but now and again he looked at her sideways with his sharp eyes. Stafford did not like to interrupt them, and withdrew to the other end of the terrace, with a cigarette, to wait till they joined him.
"Young Orme has come out to look for you," said Mr. Falconer, without turning his head.
"I know," she said, though she also had not turned. "They want me to sing. I will go in directly. You have not answered my question, father. Is Sir Stephen very rich, or is all this only sham? I have heard you say so often that display very often only covers poverty."
Falconer eyed her curiously.
"Why do you want to know? What does it matter to you?"
She shrugged her shoulders impatiently, resentfully, and he went on:
"Yes, he's rich; confoundedly so. But he is playing a big game, in which he is running some risks; and he'll want all his money to help him win it."
"And are you joining him in the game?" she asked.
He looked at her with surprise. There was a note in her voice which he had never heard before, a note which conveyed to him the fact that she was no longer a girl, but a woman.
"Upon my soul, I don't know why you ask! Well, well!"—she had repeated the impatient gesture. "I haven't made up my mind yet. He wants me to join him. I could be of service to him; on the other hand, I could—yes, get in his way; for I know some of the points of the game he is playing. Yes, I could help him—or spoil him."
"And which are you going to do?" she asked, in a low voice, her eyes veiled, her lips drawn straight.
Falconer laughed grimly. "I don't know. It all depends. Which would you do?" he asked, half sarcastically.
She was silent for a moment, then she said: "You knew Sir Stephen some time ago—years ago, father?"
Falconer nodded. "I did," he said, shortly.
"And you were friends, and you quarrelled?"
He looked at her with an air of surprise.
"I saw you both when you stood opposite each other after the carriage accident," she said, coolly. "I am not blind, and I am not particularly stupid. It didn't strike me at the time that there had been anything wrong between you, but I have since seen you look at Sir Stephen, and—you have an expressive face sometimes, oh, my father!"
He grinned grimly.
"You appear to keep your eyes open, Maude. Yes; there was a row between us, and there was a grudge—"
—"Which you mean to pay off?" she said, as impassively as if they were speaking of the merest trivialities.
"Which I could pay off—gratify, if I liked," he admitted.
"How?" she asked.
He did not reply, but glanced at her sideways and bit at the cigar which he had stopped to light.
"Shall I tell you, if I were a man and I wanted revenge upon such a man as Sir Stephen Orme, what I should do, father?" she asked, in a low voice, and looking straight before her as if she were meditating.
"You can if you like. What would you do?" he replied, with a touch of sarcastic amusement.
She looked round her and over her shoulder. The windows near them were closed, Stafford with his cigarette was too far off to overhear them.
"If I were a man, rich and powerful as you are, and I owed another a grudge, I would not rest night or day until I had got him into my power. Whether I meant to exact my revenge or not, I would wait and work, and scheme and plot until I had him at my mercy so that I could say, 'See now you got the better of me once, you played me false once, but it is my turn now.' He should sue for mercy, and I would grant it—or refuse it—as it pleased me; but he should feel that he was in my power; that my hand was finer than his, my strength greater!" He shot a glance at her, and his great rugged face grew lined and stern.
"Where did you get those ideas? Why do you talk to me like this?" he muttered, with surprise and some suspicion.
"I am not a child," she said, languidly. "And I have been living with you for some time now. Sir Stephen Orme is a great man, is surrounded by great and famous people, while you, with all your money, are"—she shrugged her shoulders—"well, just nobody."
His face grew dark. She was playing on him as a musician plays on an instrument with which he is completely familiar.
"What the devil do you mean?" he muttered.
"If I were a man, in your place, I would have the great Sir Stephen at my feet, to make or to break as I pleased. I would never rest until I could be able to say: 'You're a great man in the world's eyes, but I am your master; you are my puppet, and you have to dance to my music, whether the tune be a dead march or a jig.' That is what I should do if I were a man; but I am only a girl, and it seems to me nowadays that men have more of the woman in them than we have."
He stopped and stared at her in the moonlight, a dark frown on his face, his eyes heavy with doubt and suspicion.
"Look here, my girl," he said, "you are showing up in a new light to-night. You are talking as your mother used to talk. And you aren't doing it without a purpose. What is it? What grudge can you, a mere girl who has only known him for a couple of days, have against Sir Stephen?"
She smiled.
"Let us say that I am only concerned for my father's wounded pride and honour," she said. "Or let us say that Ihavea game of my own to play, and that I am asking you to help me while you gratify your own desire for revenge. Will you help me?"
"Tell me—tell me what your game is. Good Lord!"—with a scowl. "Fancy you having a game: it's—it's ridiculous!"
"Almost as ridiculous as calling me a girl and expecting to see me playing with a doll or a hoop," she returned, calmly. "But you needn't reply. I can see you mean to do it, like a good and indulgent father; and some day, perhaps soon, I will, like a good and dutiful daughter, tell you why I wanted you to do it. Is that you, Mr. Orme? Will I come and sing? Oh, yes, if you wish it. Where is the little dog?" she asked, looking up at him with a new expression in her languorous eyes, as she glided beside him.
"Asleep on my bed," replied Stafford, with a laugh. "My man has turned him off and made him a luxurious couch with cushions three or four times, but he would persist on getting on again, so he'll have to stay, I suppose?"
"Are you always so good-natured?" she asked, in a low voice. "Or do you reserve all your tenderness of heart for dogs and horses—as Mr. Howard declares?"
"Mr. Howard is too often an ass," remarked Stafford, with a smile.
"You shall choose your song, as a reward for your exertions this afternoon," she said, as he led her to the piano.
Most of the men in the crowd waiting eagerly for the exquisite voice would have been moved to the heart's core by her tone and the expression in her usually cold eyes, but Stafford was clothed in the armour of his great love, and only inclined his head.
"Thanks: anything you like," he said, with the proper amount of gratitude.
She shot a glance at him and sank into the music-seat languidly. But a moment afterwards, as if she could not help herself, she was singing a Tuscan love-song with a subdued passion which thrilled even theblaséaudience clustered round her. It thrilled Stafford; but only with the desire to be near Ida. A desire that became irresistible; and when she had finished he left the room, caught up his hat and overcoat and went out of the house.
As he did so, Mr. Falconer walked past him into the smoking-room. Mr. Griffenberg was alone there, seated in a big arm-chair with a cigar as black as a hat and as long as a penholder.
Falconer wheeled a chair up to him, and, in his blunt fashion, said:
"You are in this railway scheme of Orme's, Griffenberg?" Mr.Griffenberg nodded.
"And you?"
"Yes," said Falconer, succinctly. "I am joining. I suppose it's all right; Orme will be able to carry it through?"
Griffenberg emitted a thick cloud of smoke.
"It will try him a bit. It's a question of capital—ready capital. I'm helping him: got his Oriental shares as cover. A bit awkward for me, for I'm rather pushed just now—that estate loan, you know."
Falconer nodded. "I know. See here: I'll take those shares from you, if you like, and if you'll say nothing about it."
Mr. Griffenberg eyed his companion's rugged face keenly.
"What for?" he asked.
Mr. Falconer smiled.
"That's my business," he said. "The only thing that matters to you is, that by taking the shares off your hands I shall be doing you a service."
"That's true: you shall have 'em," said Mr. Griffenberg; "but I warn you it's a heavy lot."
"You shall have a cheque to-morrow," said Mr. Falconer. "Where did you get that cigar: it takes my fancy?"
Mr. Griffenberg produced his cigar case with alacrity: he liked Mr.Falconer's way of doing business.
At the moment Stafford left the Villa, Ida was standing by the window in the drawing-room of Heron Hall. On the table beside her lay a book which she had thrown down with a gesture of impatience. She was too restless to read, or to work; and the intense quietude of the great house weighed upon her with the weight of a tomb.
All day, since she had left Stafford, his words of passionate love had haunted her. They sang in her ears even as she spoke to her father or Jessie, or the dogs who followed her about with wistful eyes as if they were asking her what ailed her, and as if they would help her.
He loved her! She had said it to herself a thousand times all through the long afternoon, the dragging evening. He loved her. It was so strange, so incredible. They had only met three or four times; they had said so little to each other. Why, she could remember almost every word. He loved her, had knelt to her, he had told her so in passionate words, with looks which made her heart tremble, her breath come fast as she recalled them. That is, he wanted her to be his wife, togive herselfto him, to be with him always, never to leave him.
The strangeness, the suddenness of the thing overwhelmed her so that she could not think of it calmly. He had asked her to think of it, to decide, to give him an answer. Why could she not? She had always, hitherto, known her own mind. If anyone had asked her a question about the estate, about the farm, she had known what to answer, important as the question might have been. But now she seemed as if her mind were paralyzed, as if she could not decide. Was it because she had never thought of love; because she had never dreamt that anyone would love her so much as to want to have her by his side for all his life?
As she looked through the window at the moonlight on the lawn, she thought of him; called up the vision of his tall, graceful figure and handsome face—yes; he was handsome, she knew. But she had scarcely given a thought to his face; and only felt that it was good to have him near her, to hear him talk in his deep voice, broken sometimes by the short laugh which sounded almost boyish. It had been good to have him near her—But then, she had been so lonely, had seen so few men—scarcely any at all—Suppose when she met him next she said "No," told him that she could not love him, and he went away, leaving her forever; would she be sorry?
She turned away from the window suddenly, nearly stumbling over Donald, who was lying at her feet, his nose on his paws, his great eyes fixed sadly and speculatively on her face, and caught up the book. Buthisface came between her and the page, and she put the book down and went into the hall.
Her father was in the library, there was no sound in the house to drown the voice, the passionately pleading voice which rang in her ears.
"I must go out," she said, "I shall be able to think in the air, shall be able to decide."
She caught up a shawl and flung it carelessly over her head, quite unconscious that the fleecy, rose-coloured wool made an exquisite frame for the girlish loveliness of her face, and opening the door, went slowly down the broken, lichen-covered steps, the two dogs following at her heels.
She drew in the keen but balmy air with a long breath, and looked up at the moon, now a yellow crescent in the starry sky; and something in the beauty of the night, something subtly novel thrilled her with a strange sense of throbbing, pulsing joy and happiness, underneath which lurked as subtle a fear and dread, the fear and dread of those who stand upon the threshold of the unknown; who, in passing that threshold, enter a world of strange things which they never more may leave.
Love: what was it? Did she feel it? Oh, if she could only tell! What should she say to him when she met him; and when should she meet him? Perhaps he had come to regret his avowal to her, had been wearied and disappointed by her coldness, and would not come again! At the thought her heart contracted as if at the touch of an icy hand. But the next moment it leapt with a suffocating sense of mystery, of half-fearful joy, for she saw him coming across the lawn to her, and heard her name, spoken as it had never yet been spoken excepting by him; and she stood, still as a statue, as he held out his hand and, looking into her eyes, murmured her name again.
"Ida!"
"Ida!"
It was the lover's cry of appeal, the prayer for love uttered by the heart that loves; and it went straight to her own heart.
She put out her hand, and he took it and held it in both his.
"I have come for your answer," he said in the low voice that thrills; the voice which says so much more than the mere words. "I could not wait—I tried to keep away from you until to-morrow; but it was of no use. I am here, you see, and I want your answer. Don't tell me it is 'No!' Trust me, Ida—trust to my love for you. I will devote my life to trying to make you happy. Ah, but you know! What is your answer? Have you thought—you promised me you would think?"
"I have thought," she said, at last. "I have thought of nothing else—I wanted to tell you the truth—to tell you truly as I would to myself—but it is so hard to know—Sometimes when I think that you may go away, and that I may not see you again, my heart sinks, and I feel, oh! so wretched."
He waited for no more, but caught her to him, and as she lay in his arms only slightly struggling, her face upturned, he bent his own, almost white with passion, and kissed her on the lips, and not once only.
The blood rushed to her face, her bosom rose and fell, and, her face grown pale again, her eyes gazed up into his half fiercely, half appealingly; then suddenly they grew moist, as if with tears, her lips quivered, and from them came, as if involuntarily, the words of surrender, the maiden confession:
"I love you!"
He uttered a low, sharp cry, the expression of his heart's delight, his soul's triumph.
"You love me! Ida! How—how do you know—when?" She shook her head and sighed, as she pressed her cheek against his breast.
"I don't know. It was just now—the moment when you kissed me. Then it came to me suddenly—the knowledge—the truth. It was as if a flash of light had revealed it to me. Oh, yes, I love you. I wish—almost I wish that I did not, for—it hurts me!"
She pressed her hand to her heart, and gazed up at him with the wonder of a child who is meeting its first experience of the strange commingling of pain and joy.
He raised her in his arms until her face was against his.
"I know—dearest," he said, almost in a whisper. "It is love—it is always so, I think. My heart is aching with longing for you, and yet I am happy—my God, how happy! And you? Tell me, Ida?"
"Yes, I am happy," she breathed, with a deep sigh, as she nestled still closer to him. "It is all so strange—so unreal!"
"Not unreal, dearest," he said, as they walked under the trees, her head against his shoulder, his arm round her waist and supporting her. "It is real enough, this love of mine—which will last me till my death, I know; and yours?"
She gazed straight before her dreamily.
"There can be no heaven without you, without your love," she answered, with a solemn note in her sweet voice.
He pressed her to him.
"And you have thought it all out. You have realised that you will be my wife—my very own?"
"Yes," she said. "I know now. I know that I am giving you myself, thatI am placing all my life in your hands."
"God help me to guard it and make it happy!" he said; then he laughed. "I have no fear! I will make you happy, Ida! I—I feel that I shall. Do you understand what I mean? I feel as if I had been set apart, chosen from all the millions of men, to love you and cherish you and make you happy! And you, Ida?"
She looked up at him with the same far-away, dreamy expression in her wonderful eyes.
"Now at this moment I felt that I, too, have been set apart for you: is it because you have just said the same? No, because I felt it when you kissed me just now. Ah, I am glad you did it! If you had not I might not have known that I loved you, I might have let you go forever, thinking that I did not care. It was your kiss that opened my heart to me and showed me—."
He bent over her until his lips nearly touched hers. "Kiss me in return—of your own accord, Ida! But once, if you will; but kiss me!"
Without a blush, solemnly as if it were a sacrament, she raised her head and kissed him on the lips.
There fell a silence. The world around them, in the soft shimmer of the crescent moon, became an enchanted region, the land that never was on earth or sea, the land of love, in which all that dwell therein move in the glamour of the sacred Fire of Love.
Stafford broke it at last. It is the man who cannot be contented with silence; he thirsts for his mistress's voice.
"Dearest, what shall I do? You must tell me," he said, as if he had been thinking. "I will do whatever you wish, whatever you think best. I've a strong suspicion that you're the cleverest of us; that you've got more brains in this sweet little finger of yours than I've got in my clumsy head—"
She laughed softly and looked at the head which he had libelled, the shapely head with its close-cut hair, which, sliding her hand up, she touched caressingly.
"Shall I come to your father to-morrow, Ida? I will ride over after breakfast—before, if you like: if I had my way I'd patrol up and down here all night until it was a decent time to call upon him."
She nestled a little closer to him, and her brows came level with sudden gravity and doubt.
"My father! I had not thought of him—of what he would say—do. But I know! He—he will be very angry," she said, in a low voice.
"Will he? Why?" Stafford asked. "Of course I know I'm not worthy of you, Ida; no living man is!"
"Not worthy!"
She smiled at him with the woman's worship already dawning in her deep grey eyes.
"It is I who am not worthy. Why, think! I am only an inexperienced girl—living the life of a farmer's daughter. We are very poor—oh, you do not know how poor! We are almost as poor as the smallest tenant, though we live in this big house, and are still regarded as great people—the Herons of Herondale."
"That's one of the things I have been thinking of," said Stafford. "What lovely hair you have, Ida! It is not often that dark hair is so soft, is it?"
He bent down and drew a look, which his caresses had released, across her lips, and kissed her through it.
"You are lords of the soil, people of importance and rank here, while we are—well, just ordinary folk. I can quite understand your father objecting. Dearest, you are worthy of a duke, a prince—"
She put her hand up to his lips to silence the lover's extravagant flattery.
"It is not that—the difference—which is all to your advantage," she said. "My father may think of it," she went on with innocent candour. "But it would be the same if you were of the highest rank. He does not want me to leave him."
"And if he were less anxious to keep you he would not give you to me, who am, in his opinion, and rightly, so much your inferior," said Stafford. "But I ought to go to him, dearest. I ought to go to-morrow."
She trembled a little as she nestled against him. "And—and—your father, Sir Stephen Orme?" she said. "What will he say?"
Stafford laughed slowly and confidently.
"Oh, my father? He will be delighted. He's the best of fathers, a perfect model for parents. Ever since I can remember he has been good to me, a precious sight better, more liberal and generous, than I deserved; but lately, since I've known him—Ah, well, I can only say, dearest, that he will be delighted to hear that I have chosen a wife; and when he sees you—"
He stopped and held her at arm's length for a moment and looked down into the lovely face upturned to his with its sweet, girlish gravity.
—"Why, he will fall in love with you right out of hand! I think you will like my father, Ida. He—well, he's a taking sort of fellow; everybody likes him who knows him—really knows him—and speaks well of him. Yes, I'm proud of him, and I feel as safe as if he were here to say, in his hearty, earnest way: 'I wish you good luck, Stafford! And may God bless you, my dear!'"
He flushed and laughed as if a little ashamed of his emotional way of putting it.
"He's full of—of the milk of human kindness, is my father," he said, with a touch of simplicity which was one of the thousand and fifteen reasons why Ida loved him.
She gazed up at him thoughtfully and sighed.
"I hope he will like me," she said, all the pride which usually characterized her melted by her love. "I am sure that I shall like him—for loving you."
"You will see," said Stafford, confidently. "He will be as proud as a duke about you. You won't mind if he shows it a little plainly and makes a little fuss, Ida? He's—well, he's used to making the most of a good thing when he has it—it's the life he has led which has rather got him into the way of blowing a trumpet, you know—and he'll want a whole orchestra to announce you. But about your father, dearest? Shall I come to-morrow and ask for his consent?"
She looked up at him with doubt and a faint trouble in her beautiful eyes, and he heard her sigh regretfully.
"I am afraid," she said, in a low voice.
"Afraid?" He looked at her with a smile of surprise. "If anyone were to tell me that it was possible for you to be afraid, I shouldn't believe them," he said. "Fear and you haven't made acquaintance yet, Ida!"
She shook her head.
"I am so happy, so intensely happy, that I am afraid lest the gods should be jealous and snatch my happiness from me. I am afraid that if you come to-morrow, my father will say 'No,' will—"
—"Will have me shown out," said Stafford, gravely. "I see. I shouldn't be surprised."
"And—and then I should not be able to see you again."
He laughed at the idea.
"My dearest, if all the fathers in the world said 'No,' it wouldn't make any difference to me," he said, with that air of masterfulness, that flash of the eye which a woman loves in a man. "Do you think I should give you up, that I should be content to say, 'I'm very sorry, sir,' and go off—leave you—keep away from you!" He laughed again, and she nestled a little closer, and her small hand closed a little more tightly on his arm. "And you wouldn't give me up, refuse to see me, even if your father withheld his consent, would you, Ida?" he asked.
She looked straight before her dreamily. Then raised her eyes to his gravely.
"No; I could not. It is just that. I could not. Somehow I feel as if I had given you the right to myself and that nothing could alter it, nothing could take me away from you!"
How was it possible for him to refrain from lifting her in his arms and kissing the sweet, soft lips which made such a confession.
They walked on for a minute or two in silence, when she went on, as if she had been still considering the matter:
"No, you must not come, Stafford. My father is not strong, and—and—ah! well, you know, you saw him that other night—the first night we met—do you remember? And he was walking in his sleep again the other evening. If you were to come—if I were to tell him that—that you had asked me to be your wife, he might fly into a passion; it might do him harm. Some time ago, when he was ill, the doctor told me that he must be kept quite quiet, and that nothing must be allowed to excite or irritate him. He is very old and leads so secluded a life—he sees no one now but myself. Oh, how I would like you to come; how good it would be if—if he would give me to you as other fathers give their daughters! But I dare not risk it! I cannot! Stafford"—she put her hands on his breast and looked up at him—"am I wrong to tell you all this—to let you see how much I love you? Is it—unmaidenly of me? Tell me if it is, and I will not do so for the future. I will hide my heart a little better than I am doing at present. Ah, see, it is on my sleeve!"
He took her arm and kissed the sleeve where her heart was supposed to be.
"I've read that men only love while they are not sure of a woman's love; that with every two persons it is one who loves and the other who permits himself or herself to be loved. Is that true, Stafford? If so, then it is I who love—alas! poor me!"
He drew her to him and looked into her eyes with a passionate intensity.
"It's not true," he said, almost fiercely. "For God's sake don't say such things. They—they hurt, and hurt badly; they leave a bitter taste in the mouth, a nasty pang behind. And if it were true—but it isn't, Ida!—it is I who love. Good Lord! don't you know how beautiful you are? Haven't you a looking-glass in your room? don't you know that no girl that ever was born had such wonderful eyes, such beautiful hair? Oh, my heart's love, don't you know how perfect you are?"
They had stopped under some trees near the ruined chapel, and she leant against one of them and looked up at him with a strange, dreamy, far-away look in her eyes which were dark as the purple amethyst.
"I never thought about it. Am I—do you think I am pretty? I am glad; yes I am glad!"
"Pretty!" he laughed. "Dearest, when I take you away from here, into the world, as my wife—my wife—the thought sends my blood coursing through my veins—you will create so great a sensation that I shall be half wild with pride; I shall want to go about calling aloud: 'She is my wife; my very own! You may admire—worship her, but she is mine—belongs to me—to unworthy Stafford Orme!'"
"Yes?" she murmured, her voice thrilling. "You will be proud of me? Of me, the poor little country girl who rode about the dales in a shabby habit and an old hat? Stafford, Jessie was telling me that there is a very beautiful girl staying at the Villa at Brae Wood—one of the visitors. Jessie said she was lovely, and that all the men-servants, and the maids, too, were talking about her. She must be more beautiful than I am."
"Which of the women do you mean?" he said, indifferently, with the supreme indifference which the man who is madly in love feels for every other woman than the one of his heart.
"She is a fair girl, with blue eyes and the most wonderful hair; 'chestnut-red with gold in it,' as Jessie described it to me. And she says that this girl wears the most beautiful diamonds—I am still quoting Jessie—and other precious stones, and that she is very 'high and mighty,' and more haughty than any of the other ladies. Who is it?"
"I think she must mean Miss Falconer—Miss Maude Falconer," said Stafford, as indifferently as before, as he smoothed one of the silken tresses on her brow, and kissed it as it lay on his finger. "It is just the way a slave would describe her."
"And is she very beautiful?" asked Ida.
"Yes, I suppose she is," he said.
"You suppose!" she echoed, arching her brows, but with a frank smile about her lips, the smile of contentment at his indifference. "Don't you know?"
"Well, yes, she is," he admitted. "I've scarcely noticed her. Oh, but yes, she is; and she sings very well. Yes, I can understand her making a sensation in the servants' hall—she makes one in the drawing-room. But she's not my style of beauty. See here, dearest: it doesn't sound nice, but though I've spent some hours with Miss Falconer and listened to her singing, I have only just noticed that she is good-looking, and that she has a wonderful voice: they say up at the Villa that there's nothing like it on the stage—excepting Patti's and Melba's; but all the time she has been there I have had another face, another voice, in my mind. Ever since I saw you, down there by the river, I have had no eyes for any other woman's face, however beautiful, no ears for any other woman's voice, however sweet." She was silent a moment, as she clasped her hands and laid them against his cheek.
"How strange it sounds! But if you had chanced to see her first—perhaps you would not have fallen in love with me? How could you have done so? She is so very lovely—I can see she is, by Jessie's description."
He laughed.
"Even if I had not seen you, there was no chance of my falling in love with Miss Falconer, dearest," he said, smiling at her gravity and earnestness. "She is very beautiful, lovely in her way, if you like; but it is not my way. She is like a statue at most times; at others, just now and again, like a—well, a sleek tigress in her movements and the way she turns her head. Oh, there wasn't the least danger of my falling in love with her, even if I hadn't seen the sweetest and loveliest girl in all the wide world."
"And you will feel like that, feel so sure, so certain that you love me, even though you have seen and will see so many women who are far more beautiful than I am?" she said, dreamily.
"Sure and certain," he responded, with a long sigh. "If I were as sure of your love as I am of mine for you—Forgive me, dearest!" for she had raised her eyes to his with an earnestness that was almost solemn.
"You may be sure," she said, slowly. "I shall love you as long as I live. I know it! I do not know why. I only—feel it. Perhaps we may be parted—"
He laughed—but his hand closed on hers, and gripped them tightly.
—"But I shall always love you. Something has gone out of me—is it my heart?—and I can never take it back from you. Perhaps you may grow tired of me—it may be. I have read and heard of such things happening to women—you may see someone more beautiful than Miss Falconer, someone who will lead you to forget the little girl who rode through the rain in Herondale. If so, there will be no need to tell me; no need to make excuses, or ask for forgiveness. There would be no need to tell me, for something here"—she drew her hand from his and touched her bosom—"would tell me. You would only have to keep away from me—that is all. And I—ah well I should be silent, quite silent."
"Dearest!" he murmured, reproachfully, and with something like awe, for her brows were knit, her face was pale as ivory, and her eyes glowed. "Why do you say this now, just as—as we have confessed our love for each other? Do you think I shall be faithless? I could almost laugh! As if any man you deigned to love could ever forget you, ever care a straw for any other woman!"
She turned to him with a shudder, a little cry that was tragic in its intensity, turned to him and clenched her small hands on his breast.
"Swear to me!" she panted; then, as if ashamed of the passion that racked her, her eyes dropped and the swift red flooded her face. "No! you shall not swear to me, Stafford. I—I will believe you love me as I shall love you forever and forever! But if—if the time should come when some other girl shall win you from me, promise me that you will not tell me, that you will just keep away from me! I could bear it if—if I did not see you; but if I saw you—Oh!"—something like a moan escaped her quivering lips, and she flung herself upon his breast with theabandon, the unself-consciousness of a child.
Stafford was moved to his inmost heart, and for a moment, as he held her within the embrace of his strong arms, he could not command his voice sufficiently for speech. At last he murmured, his lips seeking hers:
"Ida! I swear that I will love you forever and forever!"
"But—but—if you break your vow, you promise that you will not come to me—tell me? I shall know. Promise, ah, promise!"
"Will nothing less content you? Must I?" he said, almost desperate at her persistence. "Then I promise, Ida!"
There is something solemn and awe-inspiring in perfect happiness.
How many times in the day did Ida pull up Rupert and gaze into the distance with vacant, unseeing eyes, pause in the middle of some common task, look up from the book she was trying to read, to ask herself whether she was indeed the same girl who had lived her lonely life at Herondale, or whether she had changed places with some other personality, with some girl singularly blessed amongst women.
Jessie and Jason, even the bovine William, who was reputed the stupidest man in the dale, noticed the change in her, noticed the touch of colour that was so quick to mount to the ivory cheek, the novel brightness and tenderness in the deep grey eyes, the new note, the low, sweet tone of happiness in the clear voice. Her father only remained unobservant of the subtle change, but he was like a mole burrowing amongst his book and gloating secretly over the box which he concealed at the approach of footsteps, the opening of a door, and the sound of a voice in a distant part of the house.
But though the servants remarked the change in their beloved mistress, they did not guess at its cause; for, by chance rather than design, none of them had seen Ida and Stafford together. And yet they met daily. Sometimes Stafford would ride over from Brae Wood and meet her by the river. There was a hollow there, so deep that it hid not only themselves but the horses, and here they would sit, hand in hand, or more often with his arm round her and her small, shapely head with its soft, but roughened hair, upon his breast. Sometimes he would row across the lake and they would walk side by side along the bank, and screened by the trees in which the linnet and the thrush sang the songs which make a lover's litany; at others—and these were the sweetest meeting of all, for they came in the soft and stilly night when all nature was hushed as if under the spell of the one great passion—he would ride or walk over after dinner, and they would sit in the ruined archway of the old chapel and talk of their blank past, the magic present, and the future which was to hold nothing but happiness.
Love grows fast under such conditions, and the love of these two mortals grew to gigantic proportions, absorbing the lives of both of them. To Stafford, all the hours that were not spent with this girl of his heart were so much dreary waste.
To Ida—ah, well, who shall measure the intensity of a girl's first passion? She only lived in the expectation of seeing him, in his presence and the whispered words and caresses of his love; and, in his absence, in the memory of them. For her life meant just this man who had come and taken the heart from her bosom and enthroned his own in its place.
They told each other everything. Stafford knew the whole of her life before they met, all the little details of the daily routine of the Hall, and her management of the farm; and she learnt from him all that was going on at the great, splendid palace which in his modesty Sir Stephen Orme had called the Villa. She liked to nestle against him and hear the small details of his life, as he liked to hear hers; and she seemed to know all the visitors at the Villa, and their peculiarities, as well as if she were personally acquainted with them.
"You ought not to leave them so much, Stafford." she said, with mock reproof, as they sat one afternoon in the ballow by the river. "Don't you think they notice your absence and wonder where you are?"
"Shouldn't think so," he replied. "Besides, I don't care if they do. All my worry is that I can't come to you oftener. Every time I leave you I count up the hours that must pass before I see you again. But I expect most, if not all, of the visitors will be off presently. Most of 'em have been there the regulation fortnight; a good many come backwards and forwards; they're the city men, the money men. My father is closeted with them for hours every day—that big scheme of his seems to be coming off satisfactorily. It's a railway to some place in Africa, and all these fellows—the Griffenbergs, and Beltons, that fat German baron, Wirsch, and the rest of them, are in it. Heaven knows why my father wants to worry about it for. I heard one of them say that he calculated to make a million and a half out of it. As if he weren't rich enough!"
"A million and a half," she said. "What a large sum it seems. What one could do with a half, a quarter, a tenth of it!"
"What would you do, dearest?" he asked.
She laughed softly.
"I think that I would first buy you a present. And then I'd have the Hall repainted. No, I'd get the terrace rails and the portico mended; and yet, perhaps, it would be better to have the inside of the house painted and papered. You see, there are so many things I could do with it, that it's difficult to choose."
"You shall do 'em all," he said, putting his arm round her. "See here,Ida, I've been thinking about ourselves—"
"Do you ever think of anything else? I don't," she said, half unconsciously.
—"And I've made up my mind to take the bull by the horns—"
"Is that meant for my father or yours?"
"Both," he replied. "We've been so happy this last fortnight—is it a fortnight ago since I got you to tell me that you cared for me? Lord! it seems a year sometimes, and at others it only seems a minute!—that we haven't cared to think of how we stand; but it can't like this forever, Ida. You see, I want you—I want you all to myself, for every hour of the day and night instead of for just the few minutes I've the good luck to snatch. Directly this affair of my governor's is finished I shall go to him and tell him I'm the happiest, the luckiest man in the world; I shall tell him everything exactly how we stand—and ask him to help us with your father."
Ida sighed and looked grave.
"I know, dearest," he said, answering the look. "But your father has to be faced some time, and I—Ida, I am impatient. I want you. Now, as I daresay you have discovered, I am rather an idiot than otherwise, and the worst man in the world to carry out anything diplomatically; but my father—" He laughed rather ruefully. "Well, they say he can coax a concession out of even the Sultan of Turkey; that there is no one who can resist him; and I know I shall be doing the right thing by telling him how we stand."
She leant her elbows on her knees and her chin in the palms of her hands.
"It shall be as you say, my lord and master," she said; "and when you tell him that you have been so foolish as to fall in love with a little Miss Nobody, who lives in a ruined tumble-down house, and is as poor and friendless as a church mouse, do you think he will be delighted—that the great and all-powerful Sir Stephen Orme will throw up his hat for joy and consider that you have been very wise?"
"I think when he sees you—What is that?" he broke off.
"That" was a lady riding across the moor behind them. She was mounted on one of the Orme horses, was habited by Redfern, who had done justice to her superb and supple figure, and the sunlight which poured from between the clouds fully revealed the statuesque beauty of her face.
"I know," said Ida, quietly, as she looked at the graceful horsewoman, at the lithe, full figure, the cold perfection of the Grecian face. "That is Miss Falconer: it is, is it not?"
He nodded indifferently.
"And she has seen us," said Ida.
"It doesn't matter in the least," said Stafford. "Why shouldn't she?But I don't think she has; she did not turn her head as she rode by."
"That is why," said Ida, with her woman's acuteness. "She saw us from the top of the hill—see, the groom is just riding down."
She was silent a moment or two, watching Maude Falconer as she cantered away, then she shivered as if with cold.
"What is the matter, dearest?" he asked, drawing her to him. "Why did you shudder?"
She tried to laugh, but her eyes were grave and almost solemn. "I don't know. It was as if someone had walked over my grave; as if I felt the presentiment of some coming evil. I never felt like it before—Yes: she is very beautiful, Stafford. She is like a picture, a statue—no, that is not fair; for no picture had ever such magnificent hair, no statue was ever so full of life and—Oh, I want a word—power. Yes; she is like a tigress—a tigress asleep and in a good temper just for the present; but—"
Stafford laughed, the strong and healthy man's laugh of good-natured tolerance for the fancies of the woman he loves.
"My dear Ida, I assure you Miss Falconer is quite an ordinary young woman with nothing mysterious or uncanny about her. And if she has seen us, I am rather glad. I—well, I want to take you by the hand and exclaim aloud to the whole world: 'Behold the treasure I have found! Look upon her—but shade your eyes lest her beauty dazzle you—and worship at her feet.' Only a day or two more and I'll tell my father and have him on our side."
She made a gesture of consent.
"It shall be as you will," she murmured again. "But go now, dearest; I shall have to ride fast to reach home in time to give my father his tea."
Maude Falconer cantered easily until she had turned the corner of the hill and was out of sight of Stafford and Ida, then she pulled up the high-bred horse who fretted under her steel-like hands and tossed the foam from his champing lips, pulled up and looked straight before her, while the colour came and went on her smooth cheek; a sombre fire gleamed in the usually coldly calm eyes, and her bosom heaved under the perfect moulding of the riding-habit. She sat and looked before her for a moment or two as if she were battling with an emotion which threatened to master her and to find expression in some violent outburst; but she conquered, and presently rode on to the Villa; and half an hour later Stafford, coming up the steps, found her lying back in her favourite chair with a cup of tea in her hand.
"You are just in time," she said, looking up at him, and he looked back at her rather vacantly; for Ida had been in his arms too recently, for his mind, his whole being, to be sufficiently clear of her to permit him to take any interest in anything else "for tea," she said. "Here it comes. Shall I pour it out for you? Have you been riding far?"
"Not very far," he said. "You have been riding, too. Is it a wonder we did not meet."
"Yes," she assented, languidly. "I met no one, saw no one, while I was out. Here comes your shadow," she added, as Tiny, having heard his beloved master's voice, came helter-skelter, head over heels, and leapt on Stafford's lap. "How fond he is of you."
Stafford nodded.
"Yes; I'm jolly glad no one answered the advertisement for its owner."
She bent over and stroked the terrier, who always seemed uneasy under her caress, and her hand touched Stafford's. She glanced at him as it did so, but the white hand so soft and warm might have been a piece of senseless wood for all its effect upon him whose soul was still thrilling with Ida Heron's touch; and with a tightening of the lips, she took her hand away and leant back, but her eyes still clung to him, as, all unconscious, he bent over the dog.
At that moment a carriage drove up, and Mr. Falconer alighted. He came up the steps, his heavy face grave and yet alert; and his keen eyes glanced at the pair as they sat side by side. Stafford looked up and nodded.
"Glad to see you back, Mr. Falconer," he said, pleasantly. "StandsLondon where it did?"
"Pretty much so, yes," responded Mr. Falconer, grimly. "Yes, plenty of other thing change, have their day and cease to be, but the little village keeps its end up and sees things—and men—come and go, flare up, flicker and fizzle out. No, thanks; I'll have some tea in my room."
"And like a dutiful daughter, I will go and pour it out for him," saidMaude.
She rose—Tiny rose also, and barked at her—followed her father to his room and stood watching him as he took off his frock-coat—he had no valet—and slowly put on a loose jacket.
"Well?" she said, at last.
He sank into a chair and looked up at her with a sardonic smile on his face.
"Yes, I'm back," he said. "I hurried back because Sir Stephen is going to sign the articles to-night, going to bring the thing to a conclusion."
She nodded, her eyes fixed on his hawk-like ones with a calm but keen watchfulness.
"And you? Have you—"
He leant forward, and held out one claw-like hand, open.
"Yes, I've got him fast and tight." His hand closed, and his eyes shot a swift, lurid gleam from under their half-lowered lids. "I've got him as in a vice; I've only to turn the screw and—I squeeze him as flat and dry as a lemon." She drew a long breath of satisfaction, of relief.
"You are clever!" she said. "And in one fortnight."
He smiled grimly.
"Yes; it is sharp work; and it has taken some doing—and some money.But I've worked it. Black Steve—I mean Sir Stephen Orme, the great SirStephen—is under my thumb. To-night, the night of his triumph, I amgoing to crack him like an egg."
"You will ruin him?" she said.
"That is it," he said, with a nod. "I shall ruin him!"
"Is there no escape?" she asked in a low voice.
"None," he replied, grimly. "I tell you that nothing can save him."
"Excepting one thing," she said in so low a voice that it sounded as if she were speaking to herself.
"Eh?" he said, as if he had not caught the words. "What is it you mean: what can save him, what is this one thing?"
His heavy brows came done, and he frowned at her.
She raised her eyes, cold and glittering like steel, and met his frown unflinchingly.
"The marriage of his son Stafford with your daughter," she said, slowly, calmly.
Mr. Falconer started and stared at her, his heavy face growing a dust-red, his eyes distended with amazement and anger.
"Are you out of your mind?" he said at last, and frowning at her in a kind of perplexity. "'Pon my soul, Maude, I'm never quite certain whether you are in jest or earnest! If this is intended for a joke, permit me to tell you I consider it in vilely bad taste."
"I am not jesting," she said, very quietly, her chin in her hand, her blue eyes fixed on his unblushingly. "I am in the most sober, the most serious earnest, I assure you."
He rose, then sank into the chair again, and sighed impatiently.
"Do you mean to say that you—that he—Confound it. If ever there was a man to be pitied, it is the one who has the honour to be your father, Maude."
"Why?" she asked, calmly. "Have I not been a dutiful daughter? Have I ever given you any trouble, deceived you? Am I not perfectly frank with you at this moment?" He rose and paced to the mantel-shelf, and leaning against it, looked down upon her, the frown still on his heavy face, his hands thrust deeply in his pockets.
"You've always been a puzzle to me," he said, more to himself than to her. "Ever since you were born I've felt uncertain about you—you're like your mother. But never mind that. What game is this you're carrying on?"
"One in which I mean to win," she replied, slowly, meditatively. "Have you not seen—How slow to perceive, even you, a reputedly clever man, can be! I don't suppose there is a woman in the house who has not detected the fact that I am in love with Stafford Orme, though I have tried to hide it from them—and you will admit that I am not a bad actress."
"In love with Stafford Orme!" His face darkened. "No, I did not know it. Why—-what the devil does he mean by not coming to me!" he broke out angrily, harshly.
She smiled.
"He hasn't come to ask you for me, because—well, he doesn't want me," she said in a low voice.
"What!" he exclaimed below his breath. "Do you mean to tell me that—that—Why, you can't have the shamelessness to care for the man without—until—"
She broke in upon his burst of indignation with a low, clear laugh, and there was no shame in her voice or eyes, as she said:
"Would it be so shameful if I have? My dear father, you and I should differ on that point. We are told that we are made for love and to be loved, that it is our proper and natural destiny. Why, then, should we be ashamed of it. None of us are in reality; we only pretend to be. It is part of the world's system of hypocrisy to assume an incapacity for loving a man until he has asked you; to pretend an utter indifference until he has said the magic words, 'I love you.' As if love could wait, ever did wait, ever will! Anyway, mine did not! And I am no different to other women—only more candid."
"By Heaven, you make me feel—mad!" he said, with suppressed anger. "You tell me unblushingly, to my face, that you have fallen in love with the son of my old enemy, that you want to marry him—you ask me to help you, to—to forego my just revenge, to use my hold over him as a lever, to induce him, force him—Good God! have you no sense of right or wrong, are you utterly devoid of—of modesty, of womanly pride!"
He glowered down upon her with flushed face and angry eyes; but she was quite unmoved by his outburst, and still met his gaze steadily, almost reflectingly.
"A fortnight ago I should have asked myself that question—and as angrily as you; but I can't now. It has gone too far."
"Gone too far! You mean—"
"That I have grown to love him so much, so dearly, that life without him—"
"By God! you will have to live without him, for I'll not help you to get him," he said, fiercely. "Stafford Orme, Stephen Orme's boy! No! Put the thing out of your mind, Maude! See here—I don't want to be angry; I'll take back all I said: you—well, you surprised me, and shocked me, too, I'll admit—you're a strange girl, and say things that you don't mean, and in a cold-blooded way that gives me fits. Say no more about it; put the idea out of your head."
She laughed, and rose, and gliding to him, put her hand on his arm.
"My dear father," she said in a low voice, but with a strange and subtle vibration in it, as if the passion with which she was struggling threatened to burst forth, "you don't know what you ask; you don't know what love is—and you don't know what I am! I didn't know myself until the last few days; until a gradual light shone on the truth and showed me my heart, the heart I once thought would never grow warm with love! Oh, I was a fool! I played with fire, and I have been burned. I am burning still!" She pressed her hand against her bosom, and for an instant the passion within her darted from her eyes and twisted the red, perfectly formed lips. Her hand tightened on his arm, her breath came pantingly, now quickly, now slowly. "Father I have come to you. Most girls go to their mother. I have none. I come to you because I—must! You ask me to put the—the idea out of my head." She laughed a low laugh of self-scorn and bitterness. "Do you think I have not tried to steel, to harden, my heart against this feeling which has been creeping insidiously over me, creeping, stealing gliding like a cloud until it has enveloped me? I have fought against it as never woman fought against the approach of love. The first day—it was the day he took me on the lake—ah, you don't remember, but I—Shall I ever forget it!—the first day my heart went out to him I tried to call it back, to laugh at my weakness, to call myself a fool! And I thought I had succeeded in driving the insidious feeling away. But I was wrong. It was there in my heart already, and day by day, as I saw him, as I heard him speak, the thing grew until I could not see him cross the lawn, hear him speak to the dog, without thrilling, without shivering, shuddering! Father, have pity on me! No, I won't ask for pity! I won't have it! But I ask, I demand, sympathy, your help! Father," she drew nearer to him and looked into his eyes with an awful look of desperation, of broken pride, of the aching craving of love, "you must help me. I love him, I must be his wife—I cannot live without him, I will not!"
He paled and gnawed at his thick lip.
"You talk like a madwoman," he said, hoarsely.
She nodded.
"Yes, I am mad; I know it; I know it! But I shall never be sane again. All my days and all my nights are consumed in this madness. I think of him—I call up his face—ah!" She flung her hands before her face and swayed to and fro as if she were half dazed, half giddy with passion. "And all day I have to fight against the risk, the peril of discovery. To feel the women's eyes on me when he comes near, to feel that their ears are strained to catch the note in my voice which will give me away, place me under their scorn—and to know that, try as I will, my voice, my eyes will grow tender as they rest on him, as I speak to him! To have to hide, to conceal, to crush down my heart while it is aching, throbbing with the torture of my love for him!"
He strode from her, then came back. The sight of the storm within her had moved him: for, after all, this strange girl was his daughter, flesh of his flesh, bone of his bone. He swore under his breath and struggled for speech.
"And—and the man Stafford?" he said. "He—he has not said—D—n it! you don't mean to tell me that he is absolutely indifferent, that he—he doesn't care?"
"I'll tell you the truth," she said. "I swore to myself that I would. There is too much at stake for me to conceal anything. He does—not—care for me."
Ralph Falconer uttered a sharp snarl of shame and resentment.
"He doesn't? and yet you—you want to marry him!"
She made a gesture with her hands which was more eloquent than words.
"Perhaps—perhaps there is someone else? Someone of the other women here?" he suggested, moodily.
"Yes, there is someone else," she said, with the same calm decision. "No, it is not one of the women here; it is a girl in the place; a farmer's daughter, I think. It is only aliaison, a vulgar intrigue—"
He uttered an exclamation.
"And yetthatdoesn't cure you!"
She shook her head and smiled.
"No; my case is incurable. Father, if he were engaged to anyone of the women here, to someone his equal, I should still love him and want him; yes, and move heaven and earth to get him. But this is only a flirtation with some country girl—she meets him on the hill-side by the river—anywhere. I have seen them, at a distance, once or twice. She is of no importance. She has caught his fancy, and will soon fail to hold it."
She waved her hand as if she were moving the obstacle aside. Her father stared at her in a kind of stupefaction.
"My girl, don't you know what you are asking for? A life of wretchedness and misery; the hell of being married to a man who doesn't love you."
She laughed and drew herself up, her eyes flashing, a warm glow on her cheeks.
"Who doesn't love me! Not now, perhaps; but do you think I should not teach him to love me, make him love me? Look at me, father!"
He looked at her reluctantly, in a kind of dazed admiration and resentment.
"Do you think any man could resist me if I set my mind upon winning him? No! Oh, it's not the language of hysterical vanity! I know my power; every woman knows how far her power will go. Let me have him to myself for one week, and—" She caught her breath. "Love! Yes, he shall return mine tenfold! I will teach him!" She caught her breath again and pressed her hands to her bosom. "Don't be afraid, father, I will take care of the future. Help me in the present; help me as I have asked you!"
"By God, you ask too much!" he said, sternly, fiercely.
She stood and looked at him. The colour slowly left her face until it was white as death, the light faded from her eyes until they were dull and lifeless, the red of her lips paled and the lips themselves relaxed and drooped, and as he looked at her a ghastly fear smote his heart and a question shot into and a question shot into his eyes. She inclined her head as if he had put the question in words.
"Yes," she said. "I shall die. You remember my mother? I shall follow her—"
He uttered a low, hoarse cry, and caught her hands and held them; then he flung them from him, and standing with his back to her, said, thickly, as if every word were forced from him:
"You shall have your way! You always have had, like your mother before you—you always will. But mark my words: you'll live to curse the hour you forced me to do this!"
She drew a long breath—it was almost a sigh—of relief, and she laid her hands on his arms and kissed him on the forehead.
"I'll risk that," she said, with a tremulous laugh.
There was a silence for a moment, then she said, calmly:
"You will play your part carefully, father? You will let Sir Stephen think that Stafford desires it: you will be careful?"
He turned upon her with an oath.
"You'd best leave it to me," he said, savagely. "I'll try and save you from shame all I can. For God's sake go and leave me alone!"