He followed her for a few steps, then stopped, and with his head on his breast, went toward the cliffs. His fury had expended itself, and left a confused, bewildering sensation behind. For the time it really seemed, as he said, that his baffled love had turned to hate. But as he thought of her, recalling her beauty, his hate shrank back and returned to its old object.
"Curse him!" he hissed, "it is he who has done this! If he had not come to-night this would not have happened. Curse him! From the first he has stood in my path. Let her go! To him! Never! No, to-morrow she shall be mine in spite of him, she cannot draw back, she will not!"
Then his brain cleared; he began to upbraid himself for hisviolence. "Fool, fool!" he muttered, hoarsely, as he climbed the path, scarcely heeding where he went. "I have lost her love forever! Why did I not bear with her a few hours longer? I have borne with her so long that I should have borne with her to the end! It was that cry of hers that maddened me! Heaven! to think that she should love him so; that she should have clung to him so persistently, him whom she had not seen for months, and keep her heart steeled against me who have hung about her like a slave! But I will be her slave no longer, to-morrow makes me her master."
As he muttered this sinister threat, he found that he had reached the end of the cutting that had been made in the cliff, and turned mechanically. The wind was blowing from the sea, and the sound of the waves rose from the depths beneath, crying hoarsely and complainingly as if in harmony with his mood. He paused a moment and looked down abstractedly.
"I would rather have her lying dead there," he muttered, "than that there should be a chance of her going back to him. No! he shall never have her. To-morrow shall set that fear at rest forever. To-morrow!" With a long breath he turned from the edge of the cliff, to descend, but as he did so he felt a hand on his arm, and looking up he saw the thin, frail figure of the boy standing in the path.
He was so wrapt in his own thoughts that he was startled, and made a movement to throw the hand off roughly, but it stuck fast, and with an effort to command himself, he said:
"Well, what are you doing up here?"
As he put the question, he saw by the fading light that the boy's face was deathly white—that for once the beautiful, fatal flush of red was absent.
"You are not fit to be out at this time of night," he said, harshly. "What are you doing up here?"
The boy looked at him, still retaining his hold, and standing in his path.
"I have come to speak to you, Jasper," he said, and his thin voice was strangely set and earnest.
Jasper looked down at him impatiently.
"Well," he said, roughly, "what is it? Couldn't you wait until I came in."
The boy shook his head.
"No," he said, and there was a strange light in his eyes, which never for a moment left the other's face. "I wanted to see you alone."
"Well, I am alone—or I wish I were," retorted Jasper, brutally. "What is it?" then he put his hand on the boy's shoulder and looked at him more closely. "Oh, I see!" he said, with a sneer. "You've been playing eavesdropper! Well," and he laughed cruelly, "listeners hear no good of themselves, though you heard no news."
A slight contraction of the thin lips was the only sign that the fell shaft had sped home.
"Yes," he said, calmly and sternly; "I have been eavesdropping; I have heard every word, Jasper."
Jasper nodded.
"Then you can indorse the truth of what I said, my dear Frank," and he smiled, evilly. "I have no doubt you have not forgotten your little escapade."
"I have not forgotten," was the response.
"Very good. Then I should advise you, if you care for your own safety and your cousin's welfare, to say nothing of the family honor, to advise her to come to terms—my terms. You have heard them, no doubt!"
"I have heard about them," said the boy. "I have—" he stopped a second to cough, but his hold on Jasper's sleeve did not relax even during the paroxysm—"I have heard them. I know what a devil you are, Jasper Adelstone. I have long guessed it, but I know now."
Jasper laughed.
"Thanks! and now you have discharged yourself of your venom, my young asp, we will go down. Take your hand from my coat, if you please."
"Wait," said the boy, and his voice seemed to have grown stronger; "I have not done yet. I have followed you here, Jasper, for a purpose; I have come to ask you for—for that paper."
Calmly and dispassionately the request was made, as if it were the most natural in the world. To say that Jasper was astonished does not describe his feelings.
"You—must be mad!" he exclaimed; then he laughed.
"You will not give it to me?" was the quiet demand.
Jasper laughed again.
"Do you know what that precious piece of hand-writing of yours cost me, my dear Frank? One hundred and fifty pounds that I shall never see again, unless your friend Holiday takes to paying his debts."
"I see," said the boy, slowly, and his voice grew reflective; "you bought it from him? No!"—with a sudden flash of inspiration—"he was a gentleman! By hook or by crook you stole it!"
Jasper nodded.
"Never mind how I got it, I have got it," and he struck his breast softly.
The sunken eyes followed the gesture, as if they would penetrate to the hidden paper itself.
"I know," he said, in a low voice; "I saw you put it there."
"And you will not see it again until I hand it to Stella, to-morrow, or give it to the magistrate before whom you will stand, my dear lad, charged with forgery."
The word had scarcely left his lips, but the boy was upon him, his long, thin arms—endued for a moment, as it seemed, with a madman's strength—encircling Jasper's neck. Not a word was uttered, but the thin, white face, lit up by the gleaming eyes, spoke volumes.
Jasper was staggered, not frightened, but simply surprised and infuriated.
"You—you young fool!" he hissed. "Take your arms off me."
"Give it to me! Give it to me!" panted the boy, in a frenzy. "Give it to me! The paper! The paper!" and his clutch tightened like a band of steel.
Jasper smothered an oath. The path was narrow; unconsciously, or intentionally, the frenzied lad had edged them both, while talking, to the brink, and Jasper was standing with his back to it. In an instant he realized his danger; yes, danger! For, absurd as it seemed, the grasp of the weak, dying boy could not be shaken off; there was danger.
"Frank!" he cried.
"Give it me!" broke in the wild cry, and he pressed closer.
With an awful imprecation, Jasper seized him and bore him backward, but as he did so his foot slipped, and the boy, falling upon him, thrust a hand into Jasper's breast and snatched the paper.
Jasper was on his feet in a moment, and flying at him tore the paper from his grasp. The boy uttered a wild cry of despair, crouched down for a moment, and then with that one wild prayer upon his lips: "Give it me!" hurled himself upon his foe. For quite a minute the struggle, so awful in its inequality, raged between them. His opponent's strength so amazed Jasper that he was lost to all sense of the place in which they stood; in his wild effort to shake the boy off he unconsciously approached the edge of the cliff. Unconsciously on his part, but the other noticed it, even in his frenzy, and suddenly, as if inspired, he shrieked out—
"Look! Leycester! He is there behind you!"
Jasper started and turned his head; the boy seized the moment, and the next the narrow platform on which they had stood was empty. A wild hoarse shriek rose up, and mingled with the dull roar of the waves beneath, and then all was still!
Leycesterhad reached Carlyon on foot. He had left the house in the morning, simply saying that he was going for a walk, and that they were not to wait any meal for him. During the last few days he had wandered in this way, seemingly desirous of being alone, and showing no inclination toward even Charlie's society. Lady Wyndward half feared that the old black fits was coming on him; but Lenore displayed no anxiety; she even made excuses for him.
"When a man feels the last hour of his liberty approaching, he naturally likes to use his wings a little," she said, and the countess had smiled approvingly.
"My dear, you will make a model wife; just the wife that Leycester needs."
"I think so; I do, indeed," responded Lenore, with her frank, charming smile.
So Leycester was left alone to his own wild will during those last few days, while the dressmakers and upholsterers were hard at work preparing for "the" day.
He could not have told why he came to Carlyon. He did noteven know the name of the little village in which he found himself. With his handsome face rather grave and weary-looking, he had tramped into the inn, and sunk down into the seat which had supported many a generation of Carlyon fisherman and many sea-coast travelers.
"This is Carlyon, sir," said the landlord, in answer to Leycester's question, eying the tall figure in its knee breeches and shooting jacket. "Yes, sir, this is Carlyon; have you come from St. Michael's, sir?"
Leycester shook his head; he scarcely heard the old man.
"No," he answered; "but I have walked some distance," and he mentioned the place.
The old man stared.
"Phew! that's a long walk, sir; a main long walk. And what can I get you to eat, sir?"
Leycester smiled rather wearily. He had heard the question so often in his travels, and knew the results so perfectly.
"Anything you like," he said.
The landlord nodded in approval at so sensible an answer, and went out to consult his wife, who had been staring at the handsome traveler from behind the half-open door of the common living room. Presently he came out with the result. The gentleman could have a bit of fish and a chop, and some Falmouth potatoes.
Leycester nodded indifferently—anything would do.
Both the fish and the chop were excellent, but Leycester did anything but justice to them. A strange feeling of restlessness seemed to have taken possession of him, and when he had lit his cigar, instead of sitting down and taking it comfortably, he felt compelled to get up and wander to the door. The evening was drawing in; there were a fairish number of miles between him and home—it was time for him to start, but still he leant against the door and looked at the sea and cliffs that rose in a line with the house.
At last he paid his reckoning, supplemented it with a half-crown for the landlord in his capacity of waiter, and started. But not homeward; the cliff seemed to exercise a strange fascination for him, and obeying the impulse which was almost irresistible, he set off for the path that ascended to the summit, and strode upward.
A great peace was upon the scene, a great unrest and unsatisfied desire was in his heart. All the air seemed full of Stella; her voice mingled, for him, in the plash of the waves. Thinking of her with a deep, sorrowful wistfulness, he climbed on and—passed her.
Stood within reach of her as she cowered and shrank against the wall of chalk, and all unconscious of her nearness he turned and came down. The evening had grown chilly and keen, but his walk had made him hot, and he turned into the inn to get a glass of ale.
The landlord was surprised to see him again, and said so, and Leycester stood, with the glass in his hand, explaining that he had been up the cliff to look at the view.
"Aye, sir, and a grand view it is," said the old man, with pardonable pride. "Man and boy I've growed under the shadow of that cliff, and I know every inch of it, top and bottom. Mighty dangerous it is too, sir," he added, reflectively. "It's not one or two, but nigh upon a score o' accidents as I've known on that cliff."
"The path is none too wide," said Leycester.
"No, sir, and in the dark——" he stopped suddenly, and started. "What was that?" he exclaimed.
"What is the matter?" Leycester asked.
The old man caught his arm suddenly, and pointed to the cliff. Leycester looked up, and the glass fell from his hand. There, on the giddy height, clearly defined against the sky, were two figures, locked together in what appeared a deadly embrace.
"Look!" exclaimed the old man. "The glass—give me the glass!"
Leycester caught up a telescope that stood on a seat beside them and gave it to him; he himself did not need a glass to see the dark, struggling figures, they were all too plain. For one second they stood as if benumbed, and then the echo of the shriek smote upon their ears, and the cliff was bare. The old man dropped the telescope and caught Leycester's arm as he made a bound toward the path.
"No, no, sir!" he exclaimed. "No use to go up there, the boat! the boat!" and he ran to the beach. Leycester followed him like a man in a dream, and tearing off his coat, seized an oar mechanically.
There was not a soul in sight, the peace of the Autumn evening rested on sea and shore, but in Leycester's ears the echo of that awful death-shriek rung as plainly as when he had first heard it. The landlord of the inn, an old sailor, rowed like a young man, and the boat rose over the waves and cleaved its way round the bay as if a dozen men were pulling.
Not a word was spoken, the great beads of sweat stood on their foreheads, their hearts throbbed in unison with every stroke. Presently Leycester saw the old man relax his stroke and bend peering over the boat, and suddenly he dropped his oar and sprang up, pointing to a dark object floating on the top of the waves. Leycester rose too, calm and acute enough now, and in another minute Jasper Adelstone was lying at their feet.
Leycester uttered no cry as his eyes fell upon the pale, set face, but he sank down in the boat and put his hands to his eyes.
When he looked up he saw the old man quietly putting his oar into its place.
"Yes, sir," he said, gravely answering Leycester's glance, "he is dead, stone dead; row back, sir."
"But the other!" said Leycester, in a whisper.
The old man shook his head and glanced upward at the cliff.
"He is up there, sir. Alive or dead, he is up there. He didn't fall into the sea or we should have met him."
"Then—then," said Leycester, his voice struggling for calm, "he may be alive!"
"We shall soon see, sir; row for life or death."
Leycester needed no further prompting, and the boat sped back. By the time they had gained the shore a crowd had collected, and Leycester felt, rather than saw, that the motionless, lifeless form that had haunted him from its place at the bottom of the boat was carried off—felt, rather than was conscious, that he was speeding up the cliff followed by the landlord and half-a-dozen fishermen.
Silent and breathless they gained the top, and stood for a moment uncertain; then Leycester saw one of them step forward with a rope.
"Now, mates," the old man said, "which of us goes down?"
There was a moment's silence, then Leycester stepped forward and took up the rope.
"I," he said.
It was but a word, but no one ventured to dispute his decision.
Quietly and calmly they fastened the rope round his waist, leaving a loop lower down. He had left his coat in the boat, and stood bareheaded for a moment. The old man stood beside him, calm and grave.
"Hold tight, sir," he said; "and if—if—you find him, sling the rope round him and give the word."
Leycester nodded, held up his hand, and the next moment was swinging in the air. Slowly and steadily, inch by inch, they lowered him down the awful depths amidst a death-like silence. Suddenly his voice broke it, coming up to them in one word—
"Stop!"
Breathless they waited, then they felt the rope jerk and they pulled up. A great sob of relief rather than a cheer rose as he appeared, bearing on his arm the slight figure of poor Frank.
Gently but swiftly they unwound the ropes and laid him down at Leycester's feet, and the old man knelt beside him.
Leycester did not speak, but stood panting and pale. The old man looked up.
"Give me a hand, boys," he said, slowly and sternly. "He is alive!"
"Alive!" said Leycester, hoarsely.
"Alive," repeated the old man. "Yes, sir, you have saved him, but——"
Leycester followed them down the cliff, followed them to the inn. Then, as the thin, wasted figure disappeared within the house, he sank on to the bench at the door, and covered his face with his hands.
Was it an awful dream?—would he awake presently and find himself at home, and this dreadful nightmare vanished?
Suddenly he felt a hand upon his arm, and looking up, saw a staid, elderly man, with "doctor" written plainly on his face.
"I beg your pardon, sir," he said. "You know this poor lad?"
Leycester nodded.
"So I understood from a word you let drop on the cliff. Asthat is the case, perhaps you would not mind breaking it to his friends?"
"His friends?" asked Leycester, mechanically.
The doctor nodded.
"They are staying at that cottage," he said, pointing. "They should be here at once."
Leycester rose, dazed for a moment; then he said, in a low voice:
"I understand. Yes, I will do it."
Without another word, he strode off. It was no great distance, but he had not to traverse it, short as it was. At the turn of the road a slight, girlish figure came flitting toward him. It was Stella. He stopped irresolute, but at that moment she had no thought even for him. Without hesitating, she came toward him, her face pale, her hands outstretched.
"Leycester! where is he?"
Without thinking he put his arm round her and she rested on his breast for a moment.
"Stella, my Stella! be brave."
She uttered a little inarticulate cry, and hid her face for a moment, then she raised her head, and looked at him.
"Take me to him!" she moaned, "take me to him. Oh my poor boy! my poor boy!"
In silence he led her to the inn, and she passed up the stairs. The fishermen gathered round the door drew back and turned their eyes from him with respectful sympathy, and he stood looking out at the sea. The minutes passed, years they seemed to him, then he heard the doctor's voice.
"Will you go up-stairs, my lord?"
Leycester started, and slowly ascended the stairs.
Stretched on a small bed lay the poor erring boy, white and death-like, already in the shadow of death. Beside him knelt Stella, her hand clasping his, her face lying beside his.
He looked up as Leycester entered, and raised a thin white hand to beckon him near. Instinctively Leycester knelt beside him.
"You want to see me, Frank?"
The boy raised his eyelids heavily, and seemed to make a great struggle for strength.
"Leycester," he said, "I—I have something to give you. You—you will understand what it means. It was the charm that bound her to him. I have broken it—broken it! It was for my sake she did it, for mine! I did not know it till to-night. Take it, Leycester," and slowly he drew from his breast the forged paper.
Leycester took it, deeming the boy delirious, and Frank seemed to read his thought.
"You will understand," he panted. "I—I—forged it, and he knew it, and held the knowledge and the paper over her head. You saved my life, Leycester: I give you something better than life, Leycester; I give you—her—Stella!"
His lips quivered, and he seemed sinking; but he made a last effort.
"I—I am dying, Leycester. I am glad, very, very glad. I don't wish to live. It is better that I should die!"
"Frank!" broke from Stella's white lips.
"Don't cry, Stella. While I lived he—he would have held you bound. Now I am dying——" Then his voice failed and his eyes closed, but they saw his lips move, and Stella, bending over him, heard the words—"Forgive, forgive!"
With a loud cry she caught him in her arms, but he had passed away, even beyond her love, and the next moment she fell fainting, still holding him to her bosom, as a mother holds her child.
An hour afterward Leycester was pacing the beach, his arms folded across his breast, his head bent, a storm of conflicting emotions raging within. The boy had spoken truly. The time had come when he understood fully the lad's words. He had gleaned much from the forged bill, which, all torn and stained, lay hidden in his pocket; but the full meaning of the mystery had been conveyed to him by the delirious words of Stella, who lay in a high fever.
He had just left her, and was now waiting for the doctor, waiting for his verdict—life or death. Life or death! He had often heard, often used the words, but never until this moment knew their import.
Presently the doctor joined him, and Leycester uttered the one word:
"Well?"
"She will live," he said.
Leycester raised his head and drew a long breath. The doctor continued:
"Yes, I think I may say she will pull through. I shall know more to-morrow. You see, she has undergone a severe strain; I do not allude to the tragic incidents of the evening; those in themselves are sufficient to try a young girl; but she has been laboring under extreme nervous pressure for months past."
Leycester groaned.
"Come, come, my lord," said the doctor, cheerfully. "You may depend upon me. I should not hold out hope unless I had good reason for so doing. We shall save her, I trust and believe."
Leycester inclined his head; he could not speak. The doctor looked at him gravely.
"If you will permit me, my lord," he said, "I would suggest that you should now take some rest. You are far from strong yourself."
Leycester smiled grimly.
"Far from strong," repeated the doctor, emphatically. "And there is a great deal more endurance before you. Be advised and take some rest, my lord.
"The landlord has been speaking to me, sir, about the unfortunate man you found. It seems that there are papers and valuables—jewelry, and such like. Will your lordship take charge of them until the police arrive? I understand that you knew him."
"Yes, I knew him," said Leycester. He had, in truth, almost forgotten Jasper Adelstone. "I will take charge of the things, if you wish it."
"Follow me, then," said the doctor.
They went to the inn, and up the stairs, with that quiet, subdued step with which men approach the presence of grim death, and stood beside the bed upon which lay all that remained of the man who had so nearly wrecked two lives.
Leycester looked down at the white face, calm and expressionless—looked down with a solemn feeling at his heart, and the doctor drew some papers from the coat.
"These are them," he said, "if your lordship will take charge of them."
Leycester took them, and as he did so, he glanced mechanically at them as they lay in his hand, and uttered an exclamation.
There in his hand lay the note which Lenore had written, bidding Jasper Adelstone meet her in the wood. He knew the writing in a moment, and before he had time to prevent it, had read the few pregnant words.
The doctor turned round.
"What is the matter?"
Leycester stood, and for the first time that awful night trembled. The idea of treachery and deceit so connected with Lenore utterly unnerved him. He knew, he felt as if by instinct, that he held in his hand a link in the chain of cunning and chicanery which had so nearly entangled him, and the thought that her name would become the prey of the newspapers was torture.
"Doctor," he said, and his voice trembled, "I have seen by accident a letter written to this unfortunate man. It consists of a few lines only. It will compromise a lady whose good name is in my keeping——"
The doctor held up his hand.
"Your lordship will be guided by your sense of honor," he said.
Leycester inclined his head and put the note in his pocket.
Then they went down, and the doctor strode off to the cottage and left Leycester still pacing the beach.
Yes, the boy had spoken truly. He saw it all now. He knew how it had been brought to pass that Stella had been entrapped into Jasper's chambers; he saw the unscrupulous hand of a woman weaving the threads of the net in which they had been entangled. Minute details were not necessary, that little note in the dainty hand-writing told its own story; Jasper Adelstone and Lady Lenore Beauchamp had been in league together; death had squared the reckoning between him and the man, but he had still to settle the tragic account with the woman.
The night passed, and the dawn broke, and the little doctor returning, weary and exhausted, found the tall figure still pacing the beach.
Lenoresat in her dainty room, her long golden hair flooding her white shoulders, her fair face reflected in the Venetian mirror with its edging of antique work and trimming of lace. Not even a Venetian mirror could have desired to hold a fairer picture; youth, beauty, and happiness, smiled from its surface. The rich, delicately curved lips smiled to-night, with an ineffable content, and serene satisfaction.
There was a latent gleam of triumph in the violet eyes, eloquent of triumph and victory. She had conquered; the desire of her life was nearly within her grasp; two days—forty-eight hours—more and Leycester Wyndward would be hers. An ancient name, an historic title, an immense estate were to be hers. To do her justice at this moment, she thought neither of the title nor the estate; it was of the man, of the man with his handsome face, and musical voice, anddebonnairemanner that she thought. If they had come and told her, there where she sat, that it had been discovered that he was neither noble nor rich, she would not have cared, it would not have mattered. It was the man, it was Leycester himself, for whom she had plotted and schemed, and she would have been content with him alone.
Even now, as she looked at the beautiful reflection in the mirror, it was with no thought of her own beauty, all her thoughts were of him; and the smile that crossed the red lips was called up by no spirit of vanity, but by the thought that in forty-eight hours, the wish and the desire of her life would be gratified.
In silence the maid brushed out the wealth of golden tresses, of which she was almost as proud as the owner herself; she had heard a whisper in the servants' hall, but it was not for her to speak. It was a rumor that something had happened to Lord Leycester, that he had not returned yet, and that one of the wild fits, with which all the household were familiar, had seized him, and that he was off no one knew where.
It was not for her to speak, but she watched her beautiful mistress covertly, and thought how quickly she could dispel the smile of serenity which sat upon the fair face.
Quiet as the wedding was intended to be, there was necessarily some stir; the society papers had got hold of it, and dilated upon it in paragraphs, in which Lenore was spoken of as "our reigning beauty," and Leycester described as the son of a well-known peer, and a man of fashion. Quite an army of upholsterers had been at work at the house in Grosvenor Square, and another army of milliners and dressmakers had been preparing the bride'strousseau. A pile of imperials and portmanteaus stood in the dressing-room, each bearing the initials "I," with the coronet.
One or two of the Beauchamps, the present earl and a brother—together with three young lady cousins, who were to act as bridesmaids—had been invited, and were to arrive the followingevening. Certainly there must be some slight fuss, and Lenore, as she thought of Leycester's absence, ascribed it to his dislike to the aforesaid fuss, and his desire to escape from it.
The maid went at last, and Lenore, with a happy sigh, went to sleep. At that time Leycester was pacing the beach at Carlyon, and Jasper and poor Frank were lying dead. Surely if dreams come to warn one of impending trouble, Lady Lenore should have dreamed to-night; but she did not. She slept the night through without a break, and rose fresh and beautiful, with only twenty-four hours between her and happiness.
But when she entered the breakfast-room, and met the pale, anxious face of the countess, and the grave one of the earl, a sudden spasm of fear, scarcely fear, but apprehension, fell upon her.
"What is the matter?" she asked, gliding to the countess, and kissing her.
"Nothing—really nothing, dear," she said, attempting to speak lightly.
"Where is Leycester?" she asked.
"That is it," replied the countess, pouring out the coffee, and keeping her eye fixed on the cup. "The foolish boy hasn't returned yet."
"Not returned?" echoed Lenore, and a faint flush came into her face. "Where did he go?"
"I don't know, my dear Lenore, and I cannot find out. He didn't tell you?"
Lenore shook her head, and fastened a flower in her dress with a hand that quivered faintly.
"No. I did not ask him. I saw him go."
"Was he on foot, or riding?" asked the earl.
"On foot," said Lenore. "He was in his shooting clothes, and I thought he was going for a walk on the hills."
The earl broke his piece of toast with a little irritable jerk.
"It is annoying," he said. "It is extremely inconsiderate of him, extremely. To-day, of all others, he should have remained at home."
"He will be here presently," said Lenore, calmly.
The countess sighed.
"Nothing—of course nothing could have happened to him."
She merely made the suggestion in a suppressed, hushed, anxious voice.
Lenore laughed—actually laughed.
"Happened to him, to Leycester!" she said, with proud contempt. "What could have happened to him? Leycester is not the sort of man to meet with accidents. Pray do not be uneasy, dear; he will come in directly, very tired, and very hungry, and laugh at us."
"I give him credit for better manners," said the earl, curtly.
He was angry and annoyed. As he had said to the countess before Lenore came in, he had hoped and believed that Leycester had given up this sort of boyish nonsense, and intended to act sensibly, as became a man who had settled to marry.
There was a moment's pause while the earl buttered his toast, still irritably; then Lady Wyndward said almost to herself—
"Perhaps Lilian knows?"
"No," said Lenore, quickly, "she does not, or she would have told me. I saw her last night the last thing, and she did not know he was out. Do not tell her."
The countess glanced at her gratefully.
"She would only be anxious and fret," said Lenore. "While I am not, and shall not be," she added, with a smile. "I am not afraid that Leycester has run away from me."
She looked up as she spoke, and flashed her beauty upon them, as it were, and smiled, and the mother felt reassured. Certainly it did not seem probable that any man would run away from her.
She herself felt no fear, not even when the morning grew to noon and the noon to evening. She went about the house superintending the packing of the multitudinous things, arranging the epergnes, playing the piano even, and more than once the light air from the French opera floated through the room.
Lord Beauchamp and the rest of the visitors were to arrive about seven, just in time to dress for dinner, and the stir that had reigned in the house grew accentuated as the time approached. Lenore went to her room at six to dress; she meant to look her best to-night, as well indeed as she meant to look on the following day; and her maid knew by the attention which her mistress had paid to the wardrobe that every care would be expected from her ministering hands. Just before she went to her room she met the countess on the stairs; they had not seen very much of each other during the day; there was a great deal to do, and the countess, notwithstanding her rank, was a housekeeper in something more than name.
"Lenore," she said, then stopped.
The beauty bent over from her position on a higher step and kissed her.
"I know, dear—he has not come yet. Well, he will be here by dinner-time. Why are you so anxious? I am not."
And she laughed.
It certainly encouraged the countess, and she even called up a smile.
"What a strange girl you are, Lenore," she said. "One would have thought that you, before all of us, would have been uneasy."
Lenore shook her head.
"No, dear; I feel—I feel that he will come. Now see if my prophecy comes true."
And she went up the stairs, casting a serene and confident smile over her shoulder.
"I will wear that last blue dress of Worth's, and the pearls," she said to her maid, and the girl started. The dress had just arrived, and was supposed to be reserved for future London triumphs.
"The last, my lady?"
Lenore nodded.
"Yes; I want to look my best to-night; and if I were not afraid of being thought too pronounced, I would wear my diamonds."
The girl arranged the beautiful hair in its close curls of gold, and fastened the famous pearls upon the white wrists and round the dainty throat; and Lenore surveyed herself in the Venetian mirror. A smile of satisfaction slowly lit up her face.
"Well?" she said, over her shoulder.
"Beautiful," breathed the girl, who was proud of her mistress's loveliness. "Oh, beautiful, my lady! but isn't it a pity to wear it to-night?"
Lenore shook her head.
"I would wear a better if I had it," she said, softly. "Now go down-stairs, and tell me when Lord Leycester returns."
The girl stared and then smiled. After all then they had been worrying themselves about nothing; her ladyship had received a message from him and knew when to expect him! She went down and crowed over them in the servants' hall, and watched for Lord Leycester.
Seven o'clock chimed from the stables, and the carriage that had been sent to meet the guests returned. Lord Beauchamp was a tall, stately old gentleman who hated traveling as he hated anything else that gave him any trouble or inconvenience, and the rest were tired and dusty, and generally pining for soap and water. The earl and countess met them in the hall, and in the bustle and fuss Leycester was not missed.
"Do not hurry, Lord Beauchamp," said the poor countess. "We will make the dinner half-past eight," and she wished in her heart that she could postpone it altogether; for Leycester had not come.
"What shall we do—what shall we do?" she exclaimed, as the earl stood at her dressing-room door with his coat in his hand.
"Do!" he retorted. "Go on without him. This comes of humoring an only son till he develops into a lunatic. Poor Lenore! I pity her!" and he went out frowning.
"He has not come, my lady!" murmured the maid, entering Lenore's room a few minutes afterwards. "Lord Beauchamp's party have arrived, but Lord Leycester has not come."
Lenore was standing by the open window, and she turned with a sudden smile. The sound of horse's feet had struck upon her ear.
"Yes, he has," she said. "He is here now," and she closed the window and sat down calmly.
Leycester rode into the courtyard on the horse that he had borrowed from the doctor, and, throwing the bridle to a groom, ascended the stone steps and made his way through the hall.
Excepting some of the servants, there was no one about, they had all gone to their dressing-rooms, and he went up the stairs in silence and uninterrupted. With bent head and dragging step, for the long vigil and hours of excitement had told upon him, he stood before Lilian's room. It was worthy of notice that inthis awful coming back of his he went to her first, as a matter of course, and knocking gently, went in.
It was dark, and the lamp was burning softly, but she, accustomed to the dim light, saw plainly that something had happened.
"Leycester!" she exclaimed. "Why—how is this, dear? Where have you been all day and all last night? You did not come to me and——" she stopped as he sat down beside her and put his hand upon her head. The hand was burning hot, his face was white and haggard and worn, and yet in some way strangely peaceful, with a far-away, dreamy expression upon it—"Leycester, where have you been?"
He bent and kissed her.
"Lil," he said, and there was a great peace in his voice though it was weary and husky, "you will be a brave good girl while I tell you!"
"Ah, Leycester!" was all she murmured.
"Well, Lil, I have found her—I have got her back—my poor Stella."
Her hand closed on his, and her delicate face went white as ivory.
"Got her back!"
"Yes," he said, in low tones. "I have found out the mystery—no, not I. It was solved for me by a mightier hand than any human one—by Death, Lil."
"Death, Leycester! She is not dead! Oh, Stella—Stella!"
"Heaven forbid," he breathed. "No, no; she is alive, though fearfully near death still. I left her lying white and still and weak as a broken lily—my poor, sweet darling!—but she is alive, thank Heaven!—she is alive! And now can you bear to hear what separated us, Lil?"
"Tell me," she said.
Sitting there, with her loving, sympathizing heart beating against his, he told her the strange story. Sobs, low and moving, broke from her as he told of the boy's death, and an awful chill fell on her as he spoke as shortly as he could of the fate that had befallen Jasper Adelstone; but when he came to speak of that short damning note that he had found—that note in the hand-writing of Lenore, and hinted at her share in the conspiracy—the gentle heart grew cold and terrified, and she hid her face for a moment, then she looked up and clasped her hands round his neck.
"Oh, Ley, Ley! deal gently with her! Forgive her! We all need forgiveness! Forgive her; she did it out of her love for you, and has suffered, and will suffer! Deal gently with her!"
He bit his lip, and his brow darkened.
"Ley, Ley!" the gentle creature pleaded, "think of her now waiting for you, think of her who was to be your wife. She loved you. Ley, she loves you still; and that will be her punishment! Ley, you will not be hard with her!"
Her prayer prevailed; he drew a long breath.
"No, Lil," he said, in a low voice, "I will not be hard with her. But as for love! True love does not stand by and see itsbeloved suffer as I have suffered; not true love. There is a passion which men libel by calling love—that is what she has borne for me. Love! Think of her? Yes; I will think of her; but how am I to forget my beautiful, suffering darling, lying so white and wan and broken," and he hid his face in his hands. Presently he rose and kissed her.
"I am going to her," he said. "Do not fear! I have given you my word; I will deal gently with her."
She let him go without another word, and he went straight to Lenore's sitting-room, travel-stained and haggard, and unrefreshed.
The maid heard his knock, and opened the door, and passed out as he entered and stood in the middle of the room. There was a faint rustle in the adjoining room, and then she came floating toward him in all her loveliness, the faint, ethereal blue making her white skin to shame the rare and costly pearls. She was dazzling in her supreme loveliness, and at any other time he would have been moved, but now it was as if a deadly, venomous serpent, glorious in its scaly beauty, lay coiled before him.
She came forward, her hands outstretched, her eyes glowing with a passionate welcome, and then stopped. Not a word passed for a moment; the two, she in all her costly attire and loveliness, he in his stained cord suit and with his haggard face, confronted each other. She read her doom at a glance, but the proud, haughty spirit did not quail.
"Well?" she said at last.
Chivalrous to the last, even in this moment, he pointed to a seat, but she made a gesture of refusal and stood, her white hands clasped tightly, her head erect, her eyes glowing. "Well? You have come back?"
"Yes, I have come back, Lady Lenore," he said, his voice dry and hoarse.
She smiled bitterly at the "lady."
"You are late," she said. "Was it worth while coming back?"
It was a proud and insolent question, but he bore with her.
"I came back for your sake," he said.
"For mine!" and she smiled incredulously. She could smile still, though an icy hand was closing round her heart, and wringing the life blood out of it.
"For yours. It was not fitting that you should hear from other lips than mine that from this hour you and I are as far apart as pole from pole."
She inclined her head.
"So be it. There is no appeal from such a sentence. But may I ask you to explain; dare I venture so far?" and her lip curled.
"Do you think you dare?" he said, sternly.
She inclined her head, his sternness struck her like a blow.
"You have come to tell me, have you not?" she said. "Where have you been?"
"I have come from Carlyon," he said.
"From whom?"
"From the girl from whom your base scheming separated me," he said, sternly.
"Ah," she breathed, but her eyes opened with a wild stare. "You—you have gone back to her?"
He waved his hand.
"Let there be no word of her between us," he said; "your lips shall not profane her name."
She turned white and her hand went to her heart.
"Forgive me," he said, hoarsely. Had he not promised to deal gently with her? "I have not come to utter reproaches—I came to shield you, if that were possible."
"To shield!—from what?" she demanded, in a low murmur.
"From the consequences of your crime," he said. "What that is, I have only learnt to-night; but for a chance accident the world would know to-morrow that Lady Lenore Beauchamp had stooped so low as to become the accomplice of Jasper Adelstone in a vile conspiracy."
She waved her hand.
"He dare not speak. I defy him!"
Leycester held up his hand.
"He is beyond your defiance," he said—"Jasper Adelstone is dead!"
She made a gesture of contemptuous indifference.
"What is that to me?" she said, hoarsely. "Why do you speak to me of him or any other man? Is it not enough that I have failed? Have you come to gloat over me? What is it that you want?"
He thrust his hand in his breast, and drew forth the note.
"I have come to restore this to you," he said. "I took it from the dead man's bosom—took it to save your reputation. The story it told me I have heard in fact from the lips of the girl you have plotted against and wronged. It is at her bidding that I am here—here to save you from scandal, and to cover if possible your retreat."
"At her's—at Stella Etheridge's?" she breathed, as though the name would choke her.
He waved his hand.
"You will leave this house to-night. I have made all arrangements necessary, and you will start in an hour's time."
She laughed discordantly.
"And if I say I will not?"
He looked at her sternly.
"Then I will tell the story to my mother and you shall hear your dismissal from her lips. Choose!"
She dropped into a chair, and made a gesture of scorn.
"Tell whom you please," she said. "I am your affianced wife, my people are under your roof at this moment; go to them and tell them that you have deserted me for a low-born girl!"
He turned and strode to the door; but ere he had reached it the reaction had come. With a low cry, she flew to him and sank at his feet, her hands clasped on his arm, her face upturned with an awful imploration.
"Leycester, Leycester! Do not leave me! Do not go! Leycester,I was wrong, wicked, base, vile; but it was all for you—for you! Leycester, listen to me! You will not go! Do not fling me from you! Look at me, Leycester!"
He did look at her, lovely in her abandon and despair, and then averted his eyes; it horrified him to see her so low and degraded.
"You will not look at me!" she wailed; "you will not! Oh, Heaven! am I so changed? am I old, ugly, hideous? Leycester, you have called me beautiful a hundred—a thousand times; and now you will not look at me! You will leave me! You shall not; I will hold you like this forever—forever! Ah!"—for he had made a movement to disengage himself—"you will not hurt me! Yes; kill me, kill me here at your feet! I would rather die so than live without you. I cannot, Leycester! Listen, I love you; I love you twenty thousand times better than that wretched girl can do! Leycester, I will give my life for you! See, I am kneeling here at your feet! You will not spurn me, you cannot repel me! Leycester! oh, my darling, my love! do what you will with me, but do not spurn me! Oh, my love, my love!"
It was piteous, it was awful, to see and hear her, and the strong man trembled and turned pale, but his heart was stone and ice toward her; the white, wan face of his darling came between them, and made the flushed, passion-distorted face at his feet seem hideous and repellant.
"Rise!" he said, sternly.
"No, no; I will not," she moaned. "I will die at your feet! Leycester, you will kill me! I have lost all for your sake, pride and honor, and now my fair name, for you cannot shield me; and you will thrust me aside. Leycester, you cannot! you cannot! Oh, my love, my love, do not spurn me from you!" and still on her knees, she bent her head upon his arm, and poured a storm of passionate, broken kisses upon his hand.
That roused him. With an exclamation of abhorrence, he threw her grasp off, and stood with his hand on the door.
She sprang to her feet, and, white and breathless, looked at him as if she would read his soul; then throwing her hands above her head, she fell to the ground.
He stood for a moment or two bending over her, thinking her senseless, but it was simply mental and physical exhaustion, and when he strode to the bell, she opened her eyes and held up her hand to stop him.
"No," she murmured. "Let no one see me. Go now. Go!"
He went to the door, and she rose and supported herself against a chair.
"Good-bye, Leycester," she said. "I have lost you—and all! All!"
It was the last words he heard her utter for many and many a year.
"Afterall, there is nothing like English scenery; this is very beautiful. I don't suppose you could get a greater variety of opal tints in one view than lies before us now, but there is something missing. It is all too beautiful, too rich, too gorgeous; one finds one's breath coming too quickly, and one longs for just a dash of English gloom to tone down the brilliant colors and give a relief."
It was Mr. Etheridge who spoke. He was standing beside a low rustic seat which fronted the world-famous view from the Piazza at Nice. The sun was dropping into the horizon like a huge ball of crimson fire, the opal tints of the sky stretched far above their heads and even behind them. It was one blaze of glory in which a slim, girlish figure, leaning far back in the seat, seemed bathed.
She was pale still, was this Stella, this little girl heroine of ours, but the dark look of trouble and leaden sorrow had gone, and the light of youth and youthful joy had come back to the dark eyes; the faint, ever ready smile hovered again about the red, mobile lips. "Sorrow" says Goethe, "is the refining touch to a woman's beauty," and it refined Stella's. She was lovely now, with that soft, ethereal loveliness which poets sing of, and artists paint, and we poor penman so vainly strive to describe.
She looked up with a smile.
"Homesick, uncle?" she murmurs.
The old man strokes his beard, and glances at her.
"I plead guilty," he says. "You cannot make a hermit crab happy if you take him out of his shell, and the cottage is my shell, Stella."
She sighed softly, not with unhappiness, but with that tender reflectiveness which women alone possess.
"I will go back when you please, dear," she says.
"Hem!" he grunts. "There is someone else to consult, mademoiselle; that someone else seems particularly satisfied to remain where we are; but then I suppose he would be contented to remain anywhere so that a certain pale-faced, insignificant chit of a girl were near him."
A faint blush, a happy flush spreads over the pale face, and the long lashes droop over the dark eyes.
"At any rate we must ask him," says the old man; "we owe him that little attention at least, seeing how much long-suffering patience he has and continues to display."
"Don't, uncle," murmurs the half-parted lips.
"It is all very well to say 'don't,'" retorts the old man with a grim smile. "Seriously, don't you think that you are, to use an Americanism, playing it rather low down on the poor fellow?"
"I—I—don't know what you mean," she falters.
"Permit me to explain then," he says, ironically.
"I—I don't want to hear, dear."
"It is fitting that girls should be made to hear sometimes," he says, with a smile. "What I mean is simply this, that, as a man with something approaching a conscience and a fellow feeling for my kind, I feel it my duty to point out to you that, perhaps unconsciously, you are leading Leycester the sort of life that the bear who dances on hot bricks—if any bear ever does—is supposed to lead. Here for months, after no end of suffering——"
"I have suffered too," she murmurs.
"Exactly," he assents, in his gently-grim way; "but that only makes it worse. After months of suffering, you allow him to dangle at your heels, you drag him at your chariot wheels, tied him at your apron strings from France to Italy, from Italy to Switzerland, from Switzerland back to France again, and gave him no more encouragement than a cat does a dog."
The faint flush is a burning crimson now.
"He—he need not come," she murmurs, panting. "He is not obliged."
"The moth—the infuriated moth, is not obliged to hover about the candle, but he does hover, and generally winds up by scorching his wings. I admit that it is foolish and unreasonable, but it is none the less true that Leycester is simply incapable, apparently, of resting outside the radius of your presence, and therefore I say hadn't you better give him the right to remain within that radius and——"
She put up her hand to stop him, her face a deeper crimson still.
"Permit me," he says, obstinately, and puffing at his pipe to emphasize. "Once more the unfortunate wretch is on tenterhooks; he is dying to take possession of you, and afraid to speak up like a man because, possibly, you have had a little illness——"
"Oh, uncle, and you said yourself that you thought I should have died."
He coughs.
"Ahem! One is inclined to exaggerate sometimes. He is afraid to speak because in his utter sensitiveness he will insist upon considering you an invalid still, whereas you are about as strong and healthy now as, to use another Americanism, 'they make 'em.' Now, Stella, if you mean to marry him, say so; if you don't mean to, say so, and for goodness sake let the unfortunate monomaniac go."
"Leycester is not a monomaniac, uncle," she retorts, in a low, indignant voice.
"Yes, he is," he says, "he is possessed by a mania for a little chit of a girl with a pale face and dark eyes and a nose that is nothing to speak of. If he wasn't an utterly lost maniac he would have refused to dangle at your heels any longer, and gone off to someone with some pretension to a regular facial outline." He stops, for there comes the sound of a firm, manly tread upon the smooth gravel path, and the next instant Leycester's tall figure is beside them.
He bends over the slight, slim, graceful figure, a loving, reverential devotion in his handsome face, a faint anxiety in hiseyes and in his voice as he says, in that low, musical undertone which has charmed so many women's ears:
"Have you no wrap on, Stella? These evenings are very beautiful but treacherous."
"There isn't a breath of air," says Stella, with a little laugh.
"Yes, yes!" he says, and puts his hand on the arm that rests on the seat, "you must be careful, indeed you must, my darling, I will go and get you a——"
"Blanket and a suit of sables," broke in the old man, with good humorous banter. "Allow me, I am young and full of energy, and you are old and wasted and wearied, watching over a sick and perhaps dying girl, who eats three huge meals a day, and can outwalk Weston. I will go," and he goes and leaves them, Stella's soft laughter following him like music.
Leycester stands beside her looking down at her in silence. For him that rustic seat holds all that is good and worth having in life, and as he looks, the passionate love that burns so steadily in his heart glows in his eyes.
For weeks, for months he has watched her—watched her patiently as now—watched her from the shadow of death, into the world of life; and though his eyes and the tone of his voice have spoken love often and often, he has so tutored his lips as to refrain from open speech. He knows the full measure of the shock which had struck her down, and in his great reverence and unfathomable love for her, he has restrained himself, fearing that a word might bring back that terrible past. But now, to-night, as he sees the faint color tinting the clear cheeks—sees the sunset light reflected in her bright eyes—his heart begins to beat with that throb which tells of long-suppressed passion clamoring for expression.
Maiden-like, she feels something of what is passing through his mind, and a great shyness falls upon her. She can almost hear her heart beat.
"Won't you sit down?" she says, at last, in that little, low, murmuring voice, which is such sweet music in his ears. And she moves her dress to make room for him.
He comes round, and sinks in the seat beside her.
"Can you not feel the breeze now?" he asks. "I wish I had brought a wrap with me, on the chance of your having forgotten it."
She looks round at him, with laughter in her eyes and on her lips.
"Did you not hear what uncle said?" She asks. "Don't you know that he was laughing, actually laughing at me? When will youbeginto believe that I am well and strong and ridiculously robust? Don't you see that the people at the hotel are quite amused with your solicitude respecting my delicate state of health?"
"I don't care anything about the people at the hotel," he says, in that frank, simple way which speaks so plainly of his love. "I know that I don't mean you to catch cold if I can help it!"
"You—you are very good to me," she says, and there is a slight tremor in her voice.
He laughs his old short, curt laugh, softened in a singular way.
"Am I? You might say that a man was particularly 'good' because he showed some concern for the safety of a particularly precious stone!"
Her eyes droop, and, perhaps unconsciously, her arm draws a little nearer to him.
"You are good," she says, "but I am not a precious stone, by any means."
"You are all that is rare and precious to me, my darling," he says; "you are all the world to me. Stella!—--" he stops, alarmed lest he should be alarming her, but his arm slides round her, and he ventures to draw her nearer to him.
It is the only embrace he has ventured to give her since that night when she fell into his arms at the cottage door at Carlyon, and he half fears that she will shrink from him in the new strange shyness that has fallen upon her; but she does not, instead she lets her head droop until it rests upon his breast, and the strong man's passion leaps full force and masterful in a moment.
"Stella!" he murmurs, his lips pressed to hers, which do not swerve, "may I speak? Will you let me? You will not be angry?"
She does not look angry; her eyes fixed on his have nothing but submissive love in them.
"I have waited,—it seems so long—because I was afraid to trouble you, but I may speak now, Stella?" and he draws her closer to him. "Will you be my wife—soon—soon?"
He waits, his handsome face eloquent in its entreaty and anxiety, and she leans back and looks up at him, then her gaze falters. A little quiver hovers on her lips, and the dark eyes droop.
Is it "Yes"? If so, he alone could have heard it.
"My poor darling!" he murmurs, and he takes her face in his hands and turns it up to him. "Oh, my darling, If you knew how I loved you—how anxiously I have waited! And it shall be soon, Stella! My little wife! My very own!"
"Yes!" she said, and, as in the old time, she raises herself in his arms and kisses him.
"And—and the countess, and all of them!" she murmurs, but with a little quaint smile.
He smiles calmly. "Not to-night, darling, do not let us talk of the outside world to-night. But see if 'all of them,' as you put it, are not exactly of one mind; one of them is," and he takes out a letter from his pocket.
"From Lilian!" she says, guessing instinctively.
Leycester nods.
"Yes, take it and read; you will find your name in every line. Stella, it was this letter that gave me courage to speak to you to-night. A woman knows a woman after all—you will read what she says. 'Are you still afraid, Ley,' she writes, 'ask her!' and I have asked. And now all the past will be buriedand we shall be happy at last. At last, Stella, where—where shall it be?"
She is silent, but she lifts the letter to her lips and kisses it.
"What do you say to Paris?" he asks.
"Paris!" she echoes, flushing.
"Yes," he says, "I have been talking to the old doctor, and he thinks you are strong enough to have a little excitement now, and thinks that a tour in Paris would be the very thing to complete things. What do you say," he goes on, trying to speak in a matter-of-fact voice, but watching her with eager eyes, "if we start at the end of the week, that will give you time to make your preparations, won't it?"
"Oh, no, no——!"
"Then say the beginning of next," he returns, magnanimously, "and we will be married about Wednesday"—she utters a faint exclamation, and turns pale and red by turns, but he is steadfast—"and then we can have a gay time of it before we settle down."
"Settle down," she says, with a little longing sigh. "How sweet it sounds—but next week!"
"It is a cruel time to wait," he declares, drawing her nearer to him, "cruel—next week! It is months, years, ages——"
"Hush!" she says, struggling gently away from him, "here is uncle."
It is uncle, but he is innocent of wraps.
"Going to stay out all night?" he asks, with fine irony.
"Why, where are the wraps?" demands Leycester.
"Eh? Oh, nonsense!" says the old man. "Do you want to commit suicide together by suffocation? It's as warm as an oven. Oh, for my little garden, and the cool room."
"You shall have it in a week or two," says Leycester, with a smile of ineffable satisfaction. "We are going to take you to Paris, and then will come and stay with you——"
"Oh, will you? and who asked you, Mr. Jackanapes?"
"Why, you wouldn't refuse shelter to your niece's husband?" retorts Leycester, laughing.
"Oh, that's it!" says the old man. "Allow me to wish you good-night. I'll leave you to your Midsummer madness—no, to your Autumn wisdom, for, upon my word, it's the most sensible word I've heard you utter for months past!"
And he goes; but before he goes he lays his hand upon the sleek head and whispers:
"That's a good girl! Now be happy."
They were married in Paris, very quietly, very happily. Lord Charles came over from Scotland, leaving the grouse and the salmon, to act as best man, and it was an open question which of the two men looked happiest—he or the bridegroom. Lord Charles had never heard of that forged note and his inadvertent share in the plot that had worked so much harm, and he never would hear of it; and furthermore he never quite understood how it was that Stella Etheridge and not Lady Lenore becameLeycester's wife; but he was quite satisfied and quite assured that it was the best of all possible arrangements.
"Leycester's the happiest man in the world, and he used to be the most wretched, and so there's an end of it," he declared, whenever he spoke of the match. "And," he would add, "the man who could have the moral cheek to be anything but absurdly happy with such an angel as Lady Stella wouldn't be fit to be anywhere out of a lunatic asylum."
They were married, and Charlie went back to the grouse, and the painter went back to the cottage and Mrs. Penfold, leaving the young couple to have their gay time of it in the gayest city of the world. It was not particularly gay after all, but it was ecstatically joyous. They went to the theaters and concerts and enjoyed themselves like boy and girl, and Leycester found himself continually amazed at the youthfulness which remained in him.
"I have begun to live for the first time," he declared one day. "I only existed before."
As for Stella, the days went by in a sort of ecstatic dream, and only a little cloud lined the golden sky—the earl and countess still hardened their hearts.
Though not a week passed without bringing a letter full of love and longing from Lilian, the old people made no sign. In the proud countess' eyes her son's wife was still Stella Etheridge, the painter's niece, and she could not forgive her for—making Leycester happy. It would have made Stella miserable if anything could have done so, but Leycester's love and watchful care often kept the cloud back—for a time.
They stayed in Paris until a little bijou place in Park Lane was ready, then they went home and took quiet possession.
It was the most charming of little nests—Leycester had given Jackson and Grahamcarte blanche—and formed a fitting casket for the beautiful young viscountess.