He took her face in his hands and turned it up to him, but paused as her lips nearly met his.
"Do you? Why, don't you know, dearest?" he asked tenderly.
"Yes, ah! yes, I do," she said, and the tears sprang to her eyes as their lips met. "It was because I loved you that I was so sorry when you went; that every hour and day was a misery to me, and seemed to hang like lead; it was because I loved you that I could not think of anything else, and—and all the world became black and dark, and—and—I hated to be alive. It was because—because of that, was it not?"
He answered with the lover's mute language.
"And—and you love me! It seems so wonderful!" she murmured, looking at him with her eyes, now deep as violets and dewy with her tears. "So wonderful! Why—why do you?"
He laughed—the laugh that for the first time in his life had left his lips.
"Have you no looking-glass in your room, Nell?" he asked. "You beautiful angel! But not only because you are the loveliest——"
She put her hand to his lips, her face crimson; but he kissed it and laid it against his cheek.
—"You are not only the loveliest woman I know, but the sweetest, Nell," he said. "No man could help loving you."
"How foolish!" she breathed; but, ah! the joy, the innocent pride that shone in her eyes! "You must have met, known, hundreds of beautiful women. I never thought that I—that any one could care for me——"
"Because there's not a spark of vanity in my Nell, thank God!" he said. "See here, dearest, you speak of other women—it is because you are unlike any other woman I have ever known—thank God again!—because you are so. Ah, Nell! it's easier to love you than to tell you why. All I know is that I'm the happiest man on earth; that I don'tdeserve——" His voice grew grave and his face clouded. "The best of us doesn't deserve the love of the worst woman; and I, who have got the sweetest, the dearest——Ah, Nell! if you knew how bad a bargain you have made!"
She laid her face against his hand, and her lips touched it with a kiss, and she laughed softly, as one laughs for mere joy which pants for adequate expression.
"I am satisfied—ah, yes! I am satisfied!" she whispered. "It is you who have made the bad bargain—an ignorant girl—just a girl! Why, Dick will laugh at you! And mamma will think you are too foolish for words."
He looked down at her—he was sitting on the bowlder now, and she was on the sand at his feet, her head resting against him, his arm round her.
"Mrs. Lorton knows nothing about me," he said. "I'm afraid, when she knows——"
His words did not affect her. In a sense, she was scarcely noting them. This new happiness, this unspeakable joy, was taking complete possession of her. That his lips should have touched hers, that his arm should be round her, that her head should be resting against him, his kisses upon her hair, was all so wonderful that she could scarcely realize it. Would she awake presently and find that she was in her own room, with the pillow wet with the tears that had fallen because "Mr. Drake Vernon" had left Shorne Mills forever?
"Does she not?" she said easily. "She knows as much about you as I do, and I am content. But mamma will be pleased, because she likes you. And Dick"—she laughed, and her eyes glowed with her love for the boy—"Dick will yell, and will tease me out of my life. But he will be glad, because he is so very fond of you. What do you do to make everybody like you so much, Mr. Vernon?"
"Oh, 'Drake, Drake, Drake'!" he said.
"Drake," she murmured, and he stifled the word on her lips with kisses.
"I'm by no means sure that Mrs. Lorton will be pleased," he said, after a moment. "See here, Nell—I never saw such hair as yours. It is dark, almost black, and yet it is soft and like silk——"
"And it is all coming down. Ah, no, you cannot coil it up. Let it be for a moment. Do you really like it? Dick says it is like a horse's mane."
"Dick is a rude young scamp to whom I shall have to teach respect for his sister. But Mrs. Lorton, dearest—I'm afraid she won't be pleased. I ought to have told you, Nell, that I'm a poor man."
"Are you?"
She nestled a little closer, and scooped up the sand with her disengaged hand—the one he was not holding—and she spoke with an indifference which filled Drake to the brim with satisfaction.
"Yes," he said. "I was not always so poor; but I am one who has had losses, as Shakespeare puts it."
"I am sorry," she said simply, but still with a kind of indifference. "Mamma said you must be rich because you—well, persons who are poor don't keep three horses and give diamond bracelets for presents."
She spoke with the frankness and ingenuousness of a child, and Drake stroked her hair as he would that of a child.
"Yes, that's reasonable enough," he said. "But I've lost my money lately. See?"
She nodded, and looked up at him a little more gravely.
"Yes? I am sorry. I suppose it must have seemed very hard to you. I have never been rich, but I can imagine that one does not like losing his money and becoming poor. Poor—Drake!"
"Then, you don't mind?" he inquired. "You don't shrink from the prospect of being a pauper's bride, Nell?"
She laughed.
"Why should I?" she said simply. "We've always been poor—at least, nearly since I can remember; and we have always been happy, Dick and I. Now, it would not have been so nice if you had been very rich."
"Why not?" he asked, lifting a tress of her hair to his lips.
She thought for a moment.
"Oh, don't you see? I should have felt that you had been foolish to—to love me——" There was an interlude. Should he ever grow tired of kissing her? he asked himself. "And I should have been afraid."
"Afraid of what?"
"Well, that you would be ashamed of me when you took me into the society of fashionable people, and——Oh, I am very glad that you are not rich! That sounds unkind, I am afraid."
"Nell," he said solemnly, "I have long suspected that you were an angel masquerading as a mere woman, but I am now convinced of it."
She laughed, and softly rubbed her cheek against his arm.
"And I have long suspected that you were a rich man and a 'somebody' masquerading as a poor one, and I am delighted to hear that I was mistaken."
He started at the first words of her retort, but breathed a sigh of relief as she concluded.
"Poor or rich, I love you, Nell," he said, with a seriousness which was almost solemn, "and I will do my level best to make you happy. When you are my wife——"
The blood rushed to her face, and her head dropped.
"That will be a long time hence," she whispered.
"No, no!" he said quickly, passionately. "I couldn't wait very long, Nell. But when you are my wife, I will try to prove to you that poor people can be happy. We shall just have enough to set up a house in some foreign land."
She looked up at him gravely.
"And leave mamma and—Dick? Yes?"
The acquiescence touched him.
"You won't mind, dearest—you won't mind leaving England?"
She shook her head.
"How cold and cruel I have become," she said, as if she were communing with herself. "But I do not care; I feel as if I could leave any one—go anywhere—if—if—I were with you!"
She moved, so that she knelt beside him, and her small brown hands were palm downward on his breast; her eyes shone like stars with the light of a perfect love glowing in them; her sweet lips quivered, as, with all a young girl's abandonment to her first passion, she breathed:
"Do you think I care whether you are poor or rich? I love you! Do you think I care whether you are handsome or ugly? It is you I love. Do you think I care where I go, so that you take me with you? I could not live without you. I would rather wander through the world, in rags, and starving, cold, and hungry, than—than marry a king and live in a palace! I only want you, you, you! I have wanted you since—since that first day—do you remember? I—turn your eyes away, don't look at me; I am so ashamed!—I came down to you that night—the first night! You were calling for water, and I—I raised you on my arm, and—and oh! I was so happy! I did not know, guess, why; but I know now. I—I must have loved you even then!"
She hid her eyes on his arm, and he kissed her hair reverently.
"And every day I—I grew to love you more. I was only happy when I was with you. I wondered why. But I know now! And you were always so kind and gentle with me; so unlike any other man I had met—the vicar, Doctor Spence—and I used to like to listen to you; and—and when you touched me something ran through me, something filled me with gladness."
She paused for breath, her eyes fixed on his face, as if she were not seeing him, but the past, and her own self moving and being in that past.
"And then you went, and all the happiness, all the gladness, seemed to go, and—bend lower—I—I can only whisper it—the night you went I flung myself on the bed and—and cried."
"My Nell, my dearest!" was all he could say.
"I cried because it seemed to me that my life had come to an end; that never, so long as I should live, should I know one moment of happiness again. It was as if all the light had gone out of the sky, as if the sun had turned cold—ah! you don't know!"
"Do I not, dearest?"
"And then, when I saw you to-day, all the light and warmth came rushing back, and I knew that it was you who were my light, my sun, and that without you I was not living, but only a shadow and a mockery of life."
Her hands fell from his breast, her head sank upon his knees, she sobbed in the abandonment of her passion.
And the man was awed by it, and almost as white as herself. He gathered her in his strong arms and murmured passionate words of love and gratitude and devotion.
"Nell, Nell, my Nell! God make me more worthy of your love!" he said brokenly, hoarsely.
She raised her head from his knees and offered him—of her own free will—her sweet lips, and then clung to him with a half-tearful, maidenly shame.
"Let me go!" she said.
The light that never was on earth or sky beamed on theAnnie Laurieas it skimmed toward the jetty.
Nell sat in the stern, and Drake lay at her feet, his arms round her, his face upturned to hers.
God knows he was grateful for her love. God also knows how unworthy he felt. This love is such a terrible thing. A maiden goes through the ways of life, in maiden meditation fancy free, pausing beside the brook to pluck the flowers which grow on its bank, and thinking of nothing but the simple girlish things which pertain to maidenhood. Then suddenly a shadow falls across her path. It is the shadow of the Man, and the love which shall raise her to heaven or drag her down to the nethermost hell. A glance, a word, and her fate is decided; before her stretch the long years of joy or misery.
And, alas! she has no choice! Love is lord of all, of ourlives, of our fate, and none can say him nay. No one of us can elect to love a little wisely, or unwisely and too well.
But there was no doubt, no misgiving, in Nell's mind that night. She had given herself to this man who had fallen at her feet in Shorne Mills, and she had given herself fully and unreservedly. His very presence was a joy to her. It was a subtle delight to reach out her hand and touch him, though with the tips of her fingers. The gates of paradise had opened and she had entered in.
How short the hour seemed during which they had sailed toward the jetty! She breathed a sigh, which Drake echoed.
"Let me lift you out," he pleaded. "I want to feel you in my arms—once more to-night!"
She surrendered herself, and, for a moment, her head sank on his shoulder.
They walked up the hill almost in silence; but every now and then his hand sought hers, and not in vain.
She looked up at the starlit sky in a kind of wondering amazement. Was it she?—was it he?—were they really betrothed? Did he really love her? Oh, how wonderful—wonderful it was! And they said there was no real happiness in this world.
She could have laughed with the scorn of her full, complete joy!
They entered The Cottage side by side, and were met by Dick, with half-serious indignation.
"Well, upon my word, for a clear case of desertion, I never——Why didn't you wait for me? I've got a couple of gulls, and——What's the matter with you, Nell? You look as if you'd found a threepenny piece."
"Just in time for supper," simpered Mrs. Lorton.
Drake took Nell's hand and led her into the light of the lamp, which illumined the night and perfumed the day.
"I've brought Nell back, Mrs. Lorton," he said, with the shyness of the newly engaged man, "and—and she has promised to be my wife."
Drake's announcement was received with amazed silence for a moment; then Dick flung up his piece of bread behind his back, caught it dexterously, and burst out with:
"See the conquering hero comes! Hurrah! Nell—Nell! Don't run away! Wait for the congratulations of your devoted brother!"
But Nell had fled to her room, and, on pretense of chivying her, Dick discreetly withdrew, leaving Drake to the inevitable interview with Mrs. Lorton.
"I'm sure I don't know what to say," she murmured. "It is so unexpected, so quite unlooked for. It is like a bolt out of the green——" She meant blue, but had got the colors mixed. "I had no idea that you had any serious intentions!"
Then she remembered that she had to play the part of guardian, and endeavored to fill the rôle with the dignity due to a lady of her exalted birth.
"I need not say that I—er—congratulate you, Mr. Vernon. Eleanor is a—er—dear girl; she has been the comfort and consolation of my life, and—er—the parting with her will be a great—a very great—trial. Pardon my emotion!" She snuffed into a handkerchief, and wiped her eyes with a delicate touch or two. "But I should not dream of standing in the way of her happiness. No! If she has made her heart's choice, I shall not attempt to dissuade her. And I feel that she has chosen wisely. Of course, my dear Mr. Vernon, though we have had the pleasure of your presence with us for some time, we do not—er—know——"
Drake winced slightly. Should he tell her the truth? Should he say, "My name's Drake Vernon, right enough, but I happen to be Lord Selbie?"
But he shrank from the avowal, the confession. He knew that it would call forth quite a torrent of amazement and self-satisfaction; that he would be asked why he had concealed his full name and rank—and to-night, of all nights, he felt unequal to the scene which would most certainly follow the confession.
"I will tell you all—I can," he said, with a pause before the last words which, fortunately for him, Mrs. Lorton was too excited to notice. "I'm afraid Nell hasn't made a very wise choice. I'm not worthy of her; but that goes without saying; no man alive is. But even in the usual acceptation of the term, I'm not what is called a good match."
Mrs. Lorton looked blank and rather puzzled as she thought of the diamond bracelet and the three horses.
"I—we—er—imagined that you were well off," she said.
"I've met with reverses lately," said Drake; "and I'm poorer than I was a—er—little while ago."
Mrs. Lorton drew herself up a little, and her expression grew less complaisant.
"Indeed?" she said interrogatively.
"Yes," he went on quietly. "I am quite aware that Nell deserves——Perhaps I'd better tell you the income we shall have to get along on."
He mentioned the sum which the remnant of his fortune would produce, and, though it was much smaller than Mrs. Lorton had expected, it was large enough to cause her countenance to relax something of its stiffness.
"It is not a large income," she said. "And I cannot but remember that Eleanor, though she is not a Wolfer by birth, is connected with the family; and that, if she were taken up by them, she might—one never knows what may happen under favorable circumstances. A season in London with my people——"
Drake nodded.
"I know," he said, "Nell is worthy of the best, and no doubt if she were in London I should stand a poor chance; but it's my luck that she isn't, you see. And"—his voice dropped—"and I'm conceited enough to believe that she cares for me; and I don't suppose my poverty will make any difference. Heaven knows, I wish I were rich, for her sake!"
"Well, we must make the best of it," said the good lady. "After all, money isn't everything." She spoke as if she were suffering from the burden of a million. "True hearts are more than coronets. I must write and tell my cousin, Lord Wolfer."
"I wouldn't! I mean, is it necessary—at any rate, just yet?" said Drake. It was just possible that Lord Wolfer might interest himself sufficiently to ask questions; he might, indeed, connect "Drake Vernon" with the two first names of Viscount Selbie. And Drake—well, this was the first bit of romance in his life, and he clung to it. The idea of marrying Nell, of marrying her as plain "Drake Vernon," down on his luck, was sweet to him. He could tell her after the wedding, when they were too far away to suffer from the fuss which Mrs. Lorton would inevitably make over the revelation.
"You see, we shall have to be married very quietly; and I'm thinking of spending some time abroad, on the Continent—Nell will like to see a foreign city or two—and, do you think it's worth while troubling your people?"
The "your people" flattered her, and she yielded, with a sigh.
"As you please, Mr. Vernon—but I suppose I must now call you 'Drake'?" she broke off, with a simper; "though, really, it sounds so strange, and—er—so familiar."
Drake wondered whether he ought to kiss her as he murmured assent.
"I'll do my best to make Nell happy," he said; "and you must make the best of a bad bargain, my dear Mrs. Lorton;and if you feel like being very good to me, you'll help me persuade Nell to an early marriage."
She brightened up at the word marriage, and at the prospect of playing a part in the function beloved of all women; and when Nell stole in, with pink cheeks and glowing eyes, drew the girl to her and bestowed a pecklike kiss upon her forehead.
Mrs. Lorton provided the conversation during that meal, and, while she prosed about the various marriages in the Wolfer family, Nell listened in dutiful silence, now and again flushing and thrilling as Drake's hand touched hers or his eyes sought her face.
And Dick behaved very well. He reserved his chaff for a future occasion, and only permitted himself one allusion to the state of affairs by taking Nell's hand and murmuring: "Beg pardon, Nell! Thought it was a spoon!"
As Drake walked down the hill to the Brownies' cottage his heart throbbed with the first pure happiness of his life. Nell's kiss, which she had given him at parting at the gate, glowed warm upon his lips. And if his happiness was alloyed by the reflection that he was deceiving her in the matter of his rank, he thrust it from him.
After all, what did it matter? What would she care? It was he, the man, not the viscount, whom she loved. Yes, the gods had been good to him, notwithstanding the ruin of his prospects; for was he not loved for himself alone?
He smiled, with a sense of the irony of circumstances, when he remembered that only a few weeks ago he had congratulated himself that he had "done with women!" But at that time he had not fallen in love with Nell of Shorne Mills, and won her love; which made all the difference!
And Nell? She lay awake in a sleepless dream. Every word he had spoken came back to her like the haunting refrain of a beautiful song; the expression in his eyes, the touch of his hand—ah! and more, the kiss of his lips—were with her still. It was her first love. No man before Drake had ever spoken of love to her; it was her virgin heart which he had won; and when this is the case the man assumes the proportions of a god to the girl.
And it seemed so wonderful, so incredible, that he should have fallen in love with her, that he should have chosen her; as his queen, as his wife. She tried to draw a mental picture of herself, to account for his preference for her, and failed to find any reason for it. He had said that she was—beautiful. Oh, no—no! He must have met a hundred women prettier than she was; but he had chosen her. How strange! how wonderful! Sleep came to her at last, but it was a sleep broken by dreams—dreams in which Drake—shecould think of him as "Drake"—held her in his arms and murmured his love. She could feel his kisses on her lips, her hair. Once the dream turned and twisted somewhat, and he and she seemed separated—a vague something came between them, an intangible mist or cloud which neither could pass, though they stood with outstretched hands and yearning hearts; but this dream passed, and she slept the sleep of joy and peaceful happiness.
Happiness! It is given to so few to know happiness that one would like to linger over the days which followed their betrothal. For every day was an idyl. Drake had resolved to send the horses up to London for sale; he had given Sparling notice, six months' wages, and a character which would insure him a good place; but he clung to the horses, and Nell and Dick and he had some famous rides before the nags went to Tattersall's.
And what rides they were! Dick, wise beyond his years, would lag behind or canter a long way in front; and Nell and Drake would be left alone to whisper together, or clasp hands in silent ecstasy.
And there was theAnnie Laurie. To sail before the wind, with the sun shining brightly from the blue sky upon the opal sea; to hold his beloved in his arms; to feel the warmth of her lips on his; to know that in a few short weeks she would be his own, his wife!—the rapture of it made him catch his breath and fall into a rapt silence.
One day, as they were sailing homeward, theAnnie Lauriespeeding on a flowing tide and a favorable breeze, his longing became almost insupportable.
"See here, Nell," he said, with the timidity of the man whose every pulse is throbbing with passion, "why—why shouldn't we be married at once? I mean, what is the use of waiting?"
"Married!"
She drew away from him and caught her breath.
"Why not?" he asked. "I shan't be any the richer for waiting, and—and I want you very badly."
"But I am here—you have got me," she said, with all the innocence of a child. "Oh, why should we hurry?"
He bit his pipe hard.
"I know," he said, rather huskily. "But I want you altogether—for my very own. I don't want to have to part with you at the gate of The Cottage. You don't understand; but I don't want you to. But, Nell, as we are going to be married, we might as well be married now as months hence."
Her head sank lower; theAnnie Laurielost the wind, and fell off and rolled on the ground swell.
"Do you—want to marry me—so soon?" she murmured.
"So soon!" he echoed. "Why, it is months—weeks—since we were engaged."
"But—but—aren't you happy—content?" she asked. "I—I am so happy. I know that you love me; that is happiness enough."
He drew her to him and kissed her with a reverence which he thought no woman would have received from him.
"No; it is not enough, dearest," he said. "You don't understand. I'll put the banns up to-morrow—no; I'll get a special license. I want you for my own, all my own, Nell."
When they sailed into the slip by the jetty, Dick was waiting for them.
"Hal-lo!" he yelled. "I've been waiting for you for the last two hours. I've news for you."
"News?" said Drake.
Nell was coiling the sheet in a methodical fashion, and thinking of Drake's words.
"Yes. The Maltbys are going to give a dance, and you and I and Nell are asked."
"And who are the Maltbys?" he inquired, with a lack of interest which nettled Dick.
"The Maltbys are our salt of the earth," he replied; "they are our especial 'local gentry'; and, let me tell you, an invitation from them is not to be sneezed at."
"I didn't sneeze," said Drake, clasping Nell's hand as he helped her out of the boat.
"It's for the fifth," said Dick; "and it's sure to be a good dance; better still, it's sure to be a good supper. Now, look here, don't you two spoons say you 'don't care about it,' for, I've set my mind upon going."
Drake laughed easily.
"Would you like to go?" he asked of Nell.
"Would you?" she returned.
Loverlike, he thought of a dance with her. She was, her girlish innocence, so sparing of her caresses, that the prospect of holding her in his arms during a waltz set him aching with longing.
"Yes," he said, "if you like."
"All right," she said. "Yes, I should think we might go, Dick."
"I should think so!" he shouted. "Fancy chucking away the chance of a dance!"
"How did they come to ask us?" Nell inquired. "We don't know them very well," she explained to Drake. "The Maltbys are quite grand folk compared with us; and, though Lady Maltby calls once in a blue moon, and sends us cardsfor a garden party now and again, this is the first time we have been invited to a dance."
"You have to thank me, young people," said Dick, with exaggerated self-satisfaction. "I happened to meet young Maltby—he's home for a spell; fancy he's sent down from Oxford—and he asked me to go rabbiting with him. He's not much of a shot, though he is a baronet's son and heir, and I rather think I put him up to a wrinkle or two. Anyway, the other day he mentioned that they were going to have a dance—quite an informal affair—and asked if I'd care to go; and Lady Maltby's just sent a note."
"All right," said Drake.
Then he suddenly remembered his masquerade, and looked grave and thoughtful. Yes, it was just possible that some one there might recognize him.
"Who are the Maltbys?" he asked. "I never heard of them."
Dick's eyes twinkled.
"I can't truthfully say that that argues you unknown," he said; "for they are very quiet people, and only famous in their own straw yard. Old Sir William hates London, and he and Lady Maltby seldom leave the Grange."
"There is no daughter, only this one son," explained Nell. "They are not at all 'grand,' and I think you will like them. Lady Maltby is always very kind, and Sir William is a dear old man, who loves to talk about his prize cattle."
"Do you happen to know who is staying at the house?" asked Drake.
After all, perhaps, he would run no risk of detection; as he had never met the Maltbys, it was highly improbable that they had heard of him.
"Oh, it's not a large party. I remember some of the names, because young Maltby ran over them. He said there weren't enough in the house to make up a dance. I shrewdly conjectured that that's one reason why we were asked."
"Wise but ungrateful youth!" said Drake. "Let us hear the names."
Dick repeated all that he could remember.
"Know any of them?" he asked.
"No," replied Drake, with relief.
"The fifth," mused Nell, thinking of her dress. "It is very short notice."
"It's only a scratch affair; but, all the same, I should wear my white satin with Brussels lace, and put on my suite of diamonds and rubies, if I were you," advised Dick.
Nell laughed, as she glanced up at Drake.
"I am just wondering whether I have outgrown mynun's veiling," she said simply. "It's the only dress I have. I'm afraid"—she hesitated—"I'm afraid you will think it a very poor one!"
"Are you?" he said significantly. "You never can tell. Perhaps I shall admire it."
As he spoke he asked himself whether he should send up to Bond Street for some jewels for her; but he resisted the temptation. Later on, when they were married, he would give himself the treat of buying her some of the things women loved. Even in the matter of the engagement ring he had held himself in check, and only a very simple affair encircled the third finger of Nell's left hand.
They found Mrs. Lorton in a flutter of excitement, and she handed Drake the note of invitation with the air of an empress conferring a patent of nobility.
"Very good people," she said; "though not, of course, the crème de la crème. I am included in the invitation, but I shall not accept. The scene would but recall others of a more brilliant description in which I once moved—er—not the least of the glittering throng. No, Eleanor, you will not need a chaperon. You have Drake, who, I trust, will enjoy himself in what may be novel circumstances," she added, with affable patronage.
"You will not need a new dress, Eleanor—Dick tells me that he must have a new suit."
"Oh, no; I am all right!" said Nell cheerfully.
She found that the old frock could, with a little alteration, be utilized, and for several evenings Drake sat and watched her as she lengthened the skirt and bestowed new lace and ribbons upon the thing, and, as he smoked, imagined how she would look on the night of the dance. He knew that not one of the other women, let them be arrayed in all the glory of the Queen of Sheba herself, would outshine his star.
On the night of the fifth Nell sang softly to herself as she stood before the glass putting the last touches to her toilet. She was brimming over with happiness, and as she looked at the radiant reflection she wondered whether her lover would be satisfied. It is the question which every woman who loves asks herself. It is for the man of her heart that she lives and has her being; it is that she may find favor in his sight that she brushes the hair he has kissed; it is with the hope that his eye may be caught, his fancy pleased, that she puts the flower at her bosom or windsthe filmy lace around her neck. And it was of Drake—Drake—Drake—she thought and dreamed as she turned from the glass and went down the stairs.
She had heard the wheels of the fly he had procured from Shallop, and she found him in the little hall waiting for her.
He looked up at the lovely vision with startled admiration, for hitherto he had only seen her in week-a-day attire; and this slight, graceful form, clad in soft white, seemed so pure, so virginal and ethereal, that, not for the first time, his joy in her loveliness was tempered with awe.
"Nell!" was all he could say, and he stretched out his arms, then let them fall. "I should crush you or break you," he said, half seriously. "Is that the dress I saw you making up—that! It looked like——"
"A rag," she finished for him, her eyes shining down upon him with a woman's gratitude for his admiration. "Will it do? Do I look—passable?"
"No," he said; "no one could pass you! Nell, my angel—yes, you are like an angel to-night!" he broke off, in lower tones. "You—you frighten me, dearest. I dread to see you spread your wings and fly away from me."
She laughed shyly and shook her head.
"And—and—how different you look!" she said; for it was the first time she had seen Drake in the costume which we share with the waiter; and her pride in him—in his tall figure and square shoulders—glowed in her eyes. If he had been lame and halt she would have still loved him; but—well, there is no woman who is not proud of her sweetheart's good looks. Sometimes she is prouder of them than of her own.
"Let me put this wrap around you," he said; and as he did so she raised her head with a blush and an invitation in her eyes, and he kissed her on the lips. "See here, dearest," he said, "your first dance! And as many as you will give me afterward. Did I ever mention that I was jealous? Nell, I inform you of the gruesome fact now; and that I shall endure agonies every time I see you dancing with another man."
"Perhaps you will be spared that pain," she said. "I may be a wallflower, waiting for you to take pity on me."
"Yes, I should think that very probable," he retorted ironically. "Oh, Nell, how I love you, how proud——"
Dick came out of the dining room at that moment, and at sight of Nell fell back against the wall in an assumed swoon.
"Is it—can it be—the simple little fishergirl of Shorne Mills? My aunt, Nell, you do look a swell! Got 'em all on,Drake, hasn't she? Miss Eleanor Lorton as Cinderella! Kiss your brother, Nell!"
He made a pretended rush at her with extended arms, and Nell shrieked apprehensively:
"Keep him off, Drake! He'll crush my dress! Dick—Dick, you dare!"
Dick winked at Drake.
"You are requested not to touch the figure. Drake, have you observed and noticed this warning? But so it is in this world! One man may kiss this waxwork, while another isn't permitted to lay a finger on it. Now, are we going to the Maltbys' dance, or have you decided to remain here and spoon? And hasn't any one a word of approval for this figure? Between you and me, Drake, I rather fancy myself to-night. I do hope I shan't break any young thing's heart, for I'm not—I really am not—a marrying man. Seen too much of the preliminary business with other people, you know."
They got into the fly, laughing, and Drake, as they drove along, compared this departure for a simple country dance with his past experiences. How seldom had he gone to a big London crush without wishing that he could stay at home and smoke or read!
"Remember," he whispered to Nell, as they alighted at the Grange, "your first dance and as many as you can give me!"
One or two other carriages set down at the same time, and they entered the hall, a portion of a small crowd, so that Lady Maltby, a buxom, smiling lady of the good old type of the country baronet's wife, had only time to murmur a few words; and Drake passed on with Nell on his arm.
As they went up the room, a dance started, and he drew Nell aside, and standing by her, looked round curiously and a trifle apprehensively. But there was no person whom he knew, and Sir William, who came up to them, had even got Drake's name wrongly.
"Glad to see you, Miss Lorton. Dear, dear! how the young ones do grow! Glad to make your acquaintance, Mr. Verney Blake, and to congratulate you. I think I've met a relative of yours—an uncle, I fancy——"
Drake's face grew expressionless in an instant.
—"Sir Richard—or—was it Sir Joseph—Blake? He took the first for shorthorns in seventy-eight."
Drake drew a sigh of relief.
"No relation of mine, Sir William, I regret," he said.
"No? Same name, too. Funny! But there are a good many Blakes. So you're going to run off with the belle of Shorne Mills, eh? Lucky fellow!"
With a chuckle he ambled off to his wife, to be sent to some one else, and Drake bent to Nell.
"Come!" was all he said, and he put his arm round her. The floor was good, the band from the garrison town knew its business, and Nell——Was he surprised that she should dance so well? Was not every ordinary movement of hers graceful? But the fact that she could dance like an angel, as he put it to himself, did not make his love for her any the less or his pride in her diminish, be certain. He himself had been the best dancer in his regiment, and this, his first waltz with the girl he adored, sent the blood spinning through his veins.
"Aren't we in step rather—nicely?" she whispered, trying to speak casually, but failing utterly; for the joy that throbbed in her heart made it impossible for her to keep her voice steady. "Oh, Drake, I—I was afraid that I might not be able to dance, it is so long—ever so long—since——Why, this is my first real ball, and I am dancing with you! And how well you waltz! But you have danced so often—this is not your first ball!"
He glanced at her with a pang of uneasiness, but her eyes shone up at him innocent of any other meaning than the simplest one, innocent of any doubt of him, any question of his past.
"He would be a rank duffer who couldn't dance with you, Nell," he said.
Her hand tightened on his with the faintest pressure, and she closed her eyes with a happy sigh.
"If it could only go on forever!" was her thought; and she prayed that no other man might want her to dance, for a long time.
She would have liked to sit out the dances she could not have with Drake, to sit and watch him. And she would not be jealous. Why should she be? Was he not her very own, her sweetheart, the man who loved her?
The waltz came to an end all too soon, and as Drake led her to a seat, young Maltby approached her with two young fellows. She was the prettiest girl in the room, though she was the simplest dressed, and the men were anxious to secure her.
Drake hastily scribbled his initials on several lines of her program, then had to resign her to her next partner, and, in discharge of his duty, seek a partner for himself.
Lady Maltby introduced him to a daughter of a local squire, a fresh young girl, with all a country girl's frankness.
"What a pretty girl that was with whom you were dancing!" she said, as they started. "She is really lovely!"
"And yet they say that women never admire each other," he remarked.
"Do you mean that?" she asked, looking up at him with her frank, blue eyes. "What nonsense! I love to see a pretty woman; and I quite looked forward to coming here to-night, because we are to have a famous London beauty."
"Oh! Which one?" asked Drake absently; his eyes were following Nell, who happened to look across at him at the moment, and who smiled the smile which a woman only accords her lover.
"I don't remember her name," said the girl. "But she is very beautiful, I am told; though I find it hard to believe that she can be lovelier than she is," and she nodded in Nell's direction.
Drake felt very friendly toward the girl.
"She is as good as she is beautiful," he said; then, as the triteness and significance of the words struck him, he laughed slightly.
His partner glanced up at him shyly.
"Oh—I beg your pardon!" she said. "I didn't know. How—how proud you must be!"
"I am," said Drake.
"And of course you want to be dancing with her now? If I were you I should hate to have to dance with any one else. I wish—you would introduce me to her after this waltz!"
"With pleasure!" said Drake, wondering what on earth the girl's name was—for, of course, he had not caught it.
But the introduction was not made, for her next partner came up immediately the dance was finished and bore her off; and Drake leaned against the wall and watched Nell.
She was dancing with a subaltern from the garrison town, and was evidently enjoying herself. It was a pleasure to him to look at her; and it occurred to him that even if the bright little American, with the pleasant voice and tender heart, had not stepped in to ruin his prospects; if the title and estates were as near to him as they had been a few months ago; if he were moving in London society, in his own critical and exclusive set, he would not have made any mistake in asking Nell to be his wife. She would have justified his choice in any society, however high.
It occurred to him that where they were going on the Continent he might, perhaps, procure a little amusement for her; there might be a dance or two at the hotels at which they would stay; or he might take her to one of the big state balls for which there would be no difficulty in obtaining an invitation.
Yes, he thought as he watched her—her lips half partedwith a smile of intense enjoyment, her eyes shining with the light of youth and ignorance of care—she should have a happy time of it or he would know the reason why; he would simply devote his life to watching over her, to screening her from every worry, to——
"Are you staying in the house, Mr. Blake?"
It was Sir William who had toddled up and addressed the reflective guest. Sir William never knew exactly how the house party was composed; and sometimes a man had been staying at the Grange for a fortnight without Sir William comprehending that the man was sleeping beneath his roof.
"No? Beg your pardon! I should have liked to show you my Herefords to-morrow morning. I think you'd admire 'em; they're the best lot I've had, and I ought to do well with them at the show. But perhaps you don't take an interest in cattle-breeding?"
"Oh, yes, I do," said Drake pleasantly, and with his rather rare smile—he was brimming over with happiness and would have patted a rhinoceros that night, and Sir William was anything but a rhinoceros. "Every man ought to take an interest in cattle-breeding and horse-breeding. I did a little in the latter way myself." He pulled up short. "I shall be very glad to come over to-morrow morning, if you'll allow me."
"Do, do!" said Sir William genially, and evidently much gratified. "But, look here, you'll have to come over early, because I've got to go and sit on the bench, and shall have to leave here soon after ten. Why not come over to breakfast—say, nine o'clock?"
"Thanks!" said Drake; "I shall be very glad to."
At this moment Lady Maltby came up to them with a rather anxious expression on her pleasant face.
"I can't think what has come to the Chesney party, William," she said. "I didn't expect them very early, but it's getting rather late now. Do you think they've had an accident?"
"Not a bit of it!" returned Sir William cheerily. "They've had a jolly good dinner, and don't feel like moving. Don't blame them, either. Suppose we go and have a cigar, Mr. Blake?"
Drake glanced toward Nell, saw that she was surrounded, exchanged a smile with her, then went off with Sir William to the smoking room. They were in the middle of their cigars, and talking cattle and horses, when Drake heard a carriage drive up.
"That's the Chesney people, I dare say," said Sir William,and continued to dilate on a new rule which he was anxious that the Agricultural Society should adopt, and Drake and he discussed it exhaustively.
Nell had just finished a dance when she saw Lady Maltby hurry across the room to receive four persons, two ladies and two men, who had just arrived. It was the belated Chesney party. Their entrance attracted a good deal of attention, and Nell herself was startled into interest and curiosity by the appearance of one of the new arrivals. She thought that she had never imagined—she had certainly never seen—so beautiful a woman, or one so magnificently dressed.
A professional beauty in all her war paint is somewhat of a rara avis in a quiet country house, and this professional beauty was the acknowledged queen of her tribe. Her hair shone like gold, and it had been dressed by a maid who had acquired her art at the hands of a famous Parisian coiffeur; her complexion, of a delicate ivory, was tinted with the blush of a rose; her lips were the Cupid-bow lips which Sir Joshua Reynolds loved to paint. Naturally graceful, her figure was indebted to her modiste for every adventitious aid the art of modern dressmaking can bestow. Nell knew too little of dress to fully appreciate the exquisite perfection of thetoilette de la danse; she could only admire and wonder. It was of a soft cream silk, rendered still softer in appearance by cobweb lace, in which, as if caught by the filmy strands, as in a net, were lustrous pearls. Diamonds glittered in the hair which served them as a setting of gold. Her very gloves were unlike those of the other women, and seemed to fit the long and slender hands like a fourth skin.
"How beautiful!" she said involuntarily, and scarcely aware that she had spoken aloud.
The man who was sitting beside her smiled.
"Like a picture, is she not?" he said. "In fact, I never see her but I am reminded of a Lely or a Lawrence; one of those full-length pictures in Hampton Court, you know!"
"I don't know," said Nell. "I've never been there."
"Well, you won't think it a fair comparison when you do see them," he said; "for there isn't one of them half as beautiful as Lady Luce."
"What is her name?" asked Nell, who had not caught it.
He did not hear the question, for the music had struck up again, and with a bow he went off to his next partner. It was evident to Nell that the beauty was not known to Lady Maltby, for Nell saw the other lady introducing them. Nell felt half fascinated by the new arrival, and sat and watched her, looking at her as intently as one gazes at somethingquite new and strange which has swung suddenly into one's own ken.
Nell was engaged for that dance, but her partner did not turn up. She was not sorry, for she wanted to rest; the room was hot, and, though she was by no means tired, she was not eager to dance the waltz—unless it were to be danced with Drake. She was sitting not very far from the window; some considerate soul had opened it a little, and Nell got up and went to it and looked out. It opened onto a wide terrace; the stars were shining brightly, the night air came to her softly and wooingly. How nice it would be to go out there! Perhaps if she stole out, and waited, presently Drake would come into the ballroom, and, missing her, would come in search of her, for he would guess that she would be out there, and they would have a few minutes by themselves under the starlit sky. It was worth trying for.
She went out, without opening the window any wider, and leaning on the stone coping, looked up at the sky, and then to where, far away, the few lights which were still burning showed her where Shorne Mills nestled amid its trees.
As long as life lasted she would never be able to think of Shorne Mills without thinking of Drake; she thought of him now, and longed for him; and as she heard the window open wider she turned with a little throb of expectation. But instead of Drake's tall figure, two ladies came out. Nell recognized the beauty by her dress, and saw that the lady who was with her was the one who had accompanied her to the ball.
Nell's disappointment was so acute as to embarrass her for a moment, and, reluctant, with a girl's shyness, to be found there alone, she rather foolishly drew back quietly into the shadow accentuated by the contrast of the light streaming from the half-open window. She retreated as far as the corner of the terrace, and, finding a seat there, over which she had nearly stumbled, she sank into it. Beside her was a marble statue of the god Pan. The pedestal almost, if not quite, concealed her; and, although she was already ashamed of having taken flight, so to speak, she decided to remain where she was until the other two women returned to the ballroom, or Drake came out and she could call to him.
Lady Luce went and leaned upon almost the very spot where Nell had leaned; and she looked up at the sky and toward the twinkling lights, and yawned.
"Sorry you have come, dear?" said Lady Chesney, with alittle laugh. "I know you so well that that yawn speaks volumes."
"It is rather slow, isn't it?" admitted Lady Luce, with the soft little London drawl in her languid voice.
"My dear Luce, I told you it would be slow. What did you expect? These dear, good people are quite out of the world—they are antediluvians. The best people imaginable, of course, but not of the kind which gives the sort of hop you care for. I'm sorry you came; but I did warn you, dear, didn't I?"
"Yes, I know," assented Lady Luce.
"And, really, you seemed so bored—forgive me, dear; I don't want to be offensive—that I thought that perhaps, after all, this rustic entertainment might amuse you."
"I'm not bored, but I'm very sick and sorry for myself," said Luce. "One always is when one has been a fool."
"My dear girl, you did it for the best."
"That always seems to me such a futile, and altogether ineffectual, consolation," said Luce; "and people never offer it to you unless you have absolutely made a fool of yourself."
"But I think, and everybody thinks with me, that you acted very wisely under the circumstances. He could not expect you to marry a poor man. Good heavens! fancy Luce and poverty! The combination is not to be imagined for a moment! It is not your fault that circumstances are altered, and that if you had only waited——"
Lady Luce made a little impatient movement with her hand.
"If I had only waited!" she said, with a mixture of irritation and regret. "It was just my luck that I should meet him when I did."
There was a pause. It need scarcely be said that Nell was extremely uncomfortable. These two were discussing a matter of the most private character, and she was playing the unwelcome part of listener. Had she been a woman of the world, it would have been easy for her to have emerged from her hiding place, and to have swept past them slowly, as if she had seen and heard nothing, as if she were quite unconscious of their presence. But Nell was not a woman of the world; she was just Nell of Shorne Mills, a girl at her first ball, and her first introduction to society. She could not move—could only long for them to become either silent or to go away and leave her free to escape.
"I suppose he was very much cut up?" remarked Lady Chesney.
"That goes without saying," replied Luce. "Of course. He was very fond of me; or, why should he have asked meto marry him? You wouldn't ask the question if you had seen him the day I broke with him. I never saw a man so cut up. It made me quite ill."
"Then the love was not altogether on one side, dear?" said Lady Chesney.
Lady Luce shrugged her white shoulders in eloquent silence.
"Where did the dramatic parting take place?" asked Lady Chesney.
"Here," said Lady Luce.
"Here?"
"Well, near here. At a little port—fishing place, called—I forget the name—something Mills."
"Oh! you mean Shorne Mills."
Nell's discomfort increased, and yet a keen interest reluctantly awoke in her. It seemed so strange to be listening to what seemed to her a life's drama, the scene of which was pitched in Shorne Mills.
"The yacht put in quite unexpectedly," continued Luce. "I didn't want to land at all, but Archie worried me into doing so. We climbed a miserable kind of steep place. I refused to go any farther. They went on, and I turned into a kind of recess to rest—and found Drake there."
For a moment the name did not strike with its full significance upon Nell's mind, and the soft voice had continued for a sentence or two before she realized that the man of whom this woman was speaking, the lover whose loss she was regretting, bore the same name as Drake. She had no suspicion that the men were the same; it only seemed strange and almost incredible that there should be two Drakes at Shorne Mills.
"I can imagine the scene," said Lady Chesney; "and I can quite understand how you feel about it. But, Luce, is it altogether hopeless?"
Lady Luce laughed bitterly.
"You don't know Drake," she said. There was a pause. "And yet"—she hesitated, and her tone became thoughtful and speculative—"sometimes I think that I could get him back. He is very fond of me; it must have nearly broken his heart. Yes; sometimes I feel sure that if I could have him to myself for, say, ten minutes, it would all come right."
"Don't you know where he is?"
"No. There was a row royal between his uncle and him, and he disappeared. No one knows where he is. It is just possible that he has gone abroad."
"There is danger in that," said Lady Chesney gravely. "One never knows what a man may do in a moment of pique. They are strange animals."
"You mean that he might be caught on the rebound, and marry some 'dusky bride' or ruddy-cheeked dairymaid?" said Lady Luce, with a little laugh of scorn. "You don't know Drake. He's the last man to marry beneath him. If I were not afraid of seeming egotistical, dear, I would say that he has known me too long and loved me too well——But there! don't let us talk any more about it. The gods may send him to my side again. If they do, I shall avail myself of their gracious favor and get him back; if not——" She sighed, and shrugged her shoulders. "Heavens! how I wish I had a cigarette!"
"My dear, you shall have one," said Lady Chesney, with a laugh. "I know where the smoking room is. I'll go and get you one, you poor, dear soul!"
She went in, and Nell rose from her seat. She could not remain a moment longer, even if she had to tell this lady she had overheard their conversation, and beg her pardon for having played, most reluctantly, the eavesdropper. But as she stood fighting with her nervousness, a man came out through the window. Her heart leaped with relief and thanksgiving, for it was Drake.
"Is that you?" he said, as he saw the figure against the coping.
Lady Luce turned; the light streamed full upon her face, and he stopped dead short and stared at her.
"Luce!" he exclaimed, in a low voice.
She stood for a moment as motionless as one of the statues. Another woman would have started, would probably have shrunk back, with a cry of amazement or of joy; but she stood for just that instant, motionless and silent, and looking at him with her eyes dilating with surprise and delight. Then, holding out both hands, she moved toward him, murmuring:
"Drake! Thank God!"
Lady Luce came forward to him with both hands extended; and the "Drake, thank God!" was perhaps as genuinely a devout an expression as she had ever uttered. For it seemed to her that Providence had especially intervened in her behalf and sent him to her side. We all of us have an idea that Providence is more interested in us than in other persons.
Drake stood and looked at her for an instant with thesame surprise which had assailed him when he recognized her; then he took the small, exquisitely gloved hands. How could he refuse them? As he had said, the members of their set could not be strangers, though two of them had been lovers and one had been jilted. They had to meet as friends or acquaintances, as individuals of a community, which, living for pleasure, could not be bored by quarrels and estrangements.
In the "smart" set a man lives not for himself alone, but for the other men with whom he plays and shoots and jokes and drinks; for the women with whom he drives and rides and dances. He must sink personal feeling, likes and dislikes, or the social ship which he joins as one of the crew, the ship which can sail only on smooth and sunlit waves, will founder. So Drake took her hands and smiled a greeting at her.
"Why! To find you here! What are you doing here, Drake?" she said.
She had no right to call him "Drake"; she had lost that right the day she had jilted him; but she called him "Drake," and the name left her lips softly and meltingly.
"I might ask the same of you, Luce," he replied gravely, and unconscious in the stress of the moment that he, too, had used the Christian name.
But, alas! Nell had heard it! She had, half mechanically, shrunk behind the pedestal; she shrank still farther behind it as Drake spoke, and she put up her hand on the cold marble as if for support. For she was trembling in every limb, and a sensation as of approaching death was creeping over her. The terrace and the two figures grew misty and indistinct, the music of the band sounded like a blurred discord in her ears, and the blood rushed through her veins like fire one moment and like ice the next.
She would have rushed out of her hiding place and into the house, but she could not move. Was she going to die? or was this awful, sickening weakness only a warning that she was going to faint? She pressed her forehead against the marble, and the icy coldness of the unsympathetic stone revived her. She found that she could hear every word, though the two had moved to the stone rail.
"It is quite a shock!" said Lady Luce. She put her handkerchief to her lips, her eyes, and then looked up at him with the smile, the confession of weakness, which is one of woman's most irresistible weapons.
"I—I am staying at the Chesneys'—you know the Chesneys? No? There is a small party—some of us came over to-night to this dance—they are old friends of the Maltbys. Drake, I can scarcely believe it is you!"
He stood beside her patiently, and yet impatiently. He was thinking of Nell even at that moment; wondering where she was, how soon he could get away from Lady Luce and find Nell.
"You are staying here?" she asked, meaning at the Maltbys'.
He nodded, thinking it well to leave her misconception uncorrected.
"How strange! Drake, it—it is like Fate!" she murmured; and, indeed, she felt that it was.
"Like Fate?" he asked.
"Yes—that—that we should meet here, in this out-of-the way place, so soon. Oh, Drake, if you knew how glad I am!"
She put out her hand and touched his arm with the timid touch, the suggestion of a caress, which women can convey so significantly.
Drake glanced toward the open window apprehensively. Nell—any one—might come out any moment, and——
"Shall we walk to the end of the terrace?" he said. "You will catch cold——"
As he spoke he looked down at her. There was only a man's inquiry, and consideration for a woman's bare shoulders, in the look; but to Nell, whose eyes were fixed upon him with an agonized intentness, it seemed that the look was eloquent of tenderness and passion.
"Yes, yes," assented Lady Luce quickly. "Some one may come, and—and—we have so much to say, haven't we, Drake?"
He drew her arm within his mechanically, as he would have drawn it if he had been leading her to a dance, or in to dinner, and they moved beyond Nell's hearing.
Drake bit his lip, and glanced sideways toward the house. What could she have to say to him? and what did this sudden tenderness, this humility, of hers mean?
Suddenly it occurred to him that she had seen his uncle, and heard of the old man's offer. Ten thousand a year was not a large income for one in Lady Lucille Turfleigh's position; but—well, she might have been tempted by it. His face hardened with an expression of cold cynicism which Nell had never seen.
"What have we to say, Luce?" he asked. "I thought you and I had exhausted all topics of absorbing interest when we parted the other day."
She winced, and looked up at him reproachfully.
"Oh, how cruel of you, Drake!" she murmured, "As if I hadn't suffered enough!"
"Suffered!"
He smiled down at her, with something as nearly approaching a sneer as Drake Selbie could bring himself to bestow upon a woman.
"Yes. Drake, did you think I was quite heartless? that—I—I—did what I did without suffering? Ah, no, you couldn't think that; you know me too well."
Her audacity brought a smile to his lips, and he found it difficult to restrain a laugh of amusement. It was because he had learned to know her so well that he himself had not suffered a pang at their broken engagement—at least, no pang since he had learned to know and love Nell.
Where was she? How could he get away from this woman, whose face was upturned to him with passionate pleading on it?
"Have you seen my uncle lately?" he asked grimly, but with a kind of suddenness.
"No," she replied, and the lie came "like truth"—so like truth that Drake felt ashamed of his suspicion of her motive.
She had not, then, heard of his uncle's offer? Then—then why was she moved at sight of him? Why were her eyes moist with unshed tears, the pressure of her hand on his arm tremulous and beseeching?
"No," she said; "I—I have been scarcely anywhere. I have—not been well. I came down here to the Chesneys' to bury myself—just to bury myself. I have been so wretched, so miserable, Drake."
"I'm sorry," he said gravely. "But why?"
She looked up at him reproachfully.
"Don't you—know? Ah, Drake, can't you guess? Don't—don't look at me like that and smile. It is not like you to be so—so hard."
"We men are hard or soft as you women make us, Luce," he said quietly. "Remember that I have been through the mill. I was not hard or cruel—once."
It was an unwise thing to say. Never, if you have done with a woman, or she has done with you, talk sentiment, says Rousseau. It was unwise, for it let Luce in.
"I know! Yes, it was all my fault. Drake, do you think I don't know that? Do you think that I don't tell myself so every hour of the day, every hour at night, when I lay awake thinking of—of the past?"
"The past is buried, Luce," he said, with a short laugh. "Don't let us dig it up again. After all, you acted wisely——"
"No; I acted like a fool!" she broke in; and she meant it. "If I had only listened to the cry of my own heart—if I hadonly refused to obey father, and—and stuck to you! But, Drake, though you think me heartless, and—and sneer——"
"I didn't mean to sneer, Luce," he said. "Forgive me if I did so unintentionally. I quite understood your difficulty, and, as I told you the day we parted, I—well, I made allowances for you. You did what most women of our set would have done."
"Would they? But perhaps they really are heartless, while I——Drake, you can't tell what I have suffered; how—how terribly I have missed you! I—yes, I will tell you the truth. Do you know, Drake, that I had made a vow that whenever we met, whether it was soon, or not for years, I would tell you all. Yes—though, like a man, you should despise me for it!"
"I'm not likely to despise you for it, Luce," he said. As he spoke, Lady Chesney came out onto the terrace. She looked up and down, saw the two figures standing together, and, with a smile, returned to the house.
"No; you are too generous for that, Drake; even if I—I confess that I have not spent one happy—oh, the word is a mockery!—that I have been wretched since the hour I—I left you."
His face grew grave, almost stern.
"I'm sorry," he said simply. "Candidly, I didn't think——"
"No, I know! You thought that I only cared for you because——You told me that I was heartless and mercenary, you remember, Drake. But, ah; it wasn't true! Yes, I've been brought up at a bad school. I've been taught that it's a sacred duty for every girl, as poor as I am, to make a good match; and I thought—see how frank I am!—that I could part from you, oh, not easily, but without breaking my heart. But I—I was mistaken! I miss you so dreadfully! There is not another man in the world I can care for, or even dream of caring for."
"Hush!" he said sternly.
There was always something impressive about Drake, a touch of the manliness which is somewhat rare nowadays, the manliness which women are so quick to acknowledge and bow to; and Lady Luce shrank a little; but her hand tightened on his arm, and her brown, velvety eyes dimmed with genuine tears—for she was more than anxious, and more than half in love with him—looked up at him penitently, imploringly.
"Drake—you believe me?" she whispered. "Don't—don't punish me too badly! See, I am at your feet—a woman—Drake"—her voice sank to a whisper, became almost inaudible, and her head drooped forward until it nearly rested on his breast. "Drake—forgive—me and——"
Her voice broke suddenly.
He was moved to something like pity. Is there any man alive who can resist the prayer, the touch of a beautiful woman, especially if she is the woman he has once loved? If such a man there be, his name is not Drake Selbie.
"Hush!" he said again, but in a gentler voice. "God knows, I loved you, Luce——"