He got up and began to pace the room, and the color mounted to his haggard face.
"I cannot—I cannot shake it off. Charlie, I despise myself; and yet, no, no, to love her once was to love her for always—to the end."
"There's another man, of course," said Lord Charles. "Didn't it occur to you to—well, to break his neck, or put a bullet through him, or get him appointed governor of the Cannibal Islands, Ley? That used to be your style."
Leycester smiled grimly.
"This man cannot be dealt with in any one of those excellent ways, Charlie," he said.
"If it's the man I suppose, that fellow Jasper Addled egg—no, Adelstone, I should have tried the first at any rate," said Lord Charles, emphatically.
Leycester shook his head.
"It's a bad business," he said, curtly, "and there is no way of making it a good one. I will go to bed. What shall we do to-morrow?" and he sighed.
Lord Charles laid his hand on his arm and kept him for a moment.
"You want rousing, Ley," he said. "Rousing, that's it! Let's have the horses to-morrow and take a big spin; anywhere, nowhere, it doesn't matter. We'll go while they can."
Ley nodded.
"Anything you like," he said, and went out.
Lord Charles called to Oliver, who was standing outside smoking a cigar—he was quite as particular about the brand as his master:
"Where did you say the earl and countess were, Oliver?" he asked.
"At Darlingford Court, my lord."
"How far is it from here? Can we do it to-morrow with the nags?"
Oliver thought a moment.
"If they are taken steadily, my lord; not as his lordship has been riding lately; as if the horse were cast iron and his own neck too."
Lord Charles nodded.
"All right," he said, "we'll do it. Lord Leycester wants a change again, Oliver."
Oliver nodded.
"We'll run over there. Needn't say anything to his lordship—you understand."
Oliver quite understood, and went off to the small stable to see about the horses, and Lord Charles went to bed chuckling over his little plot.
When they started in the morning, Leycester asked no questions and displayed the supremest indifference to the route, and Lord Charles, affecting a little indecision, made for the road to which Oliver had directed him.
The two friends rode almost in silence as was their wont, Leycester paying very little attention to anything excepting his horse, and scarcely noticing the fact that Lord Charles seemed very decided about the route.
Once he asked a question; it was when the evening was drawing in, and they were still riding, as to their destination, but Lord Charles evaded it:
"We shall get somewhere, I expect," he said quietly. "There is sure to be an inn—or something."
And Leycester was content.
About dusk they reached the entrance to Darlingford. There was no village, no inn. Leycester pulled up and waited indifferently.
"What do we do now?" he asked.
Lord Charles laughed, but rather consciously.
"Look here," he said: "I know some people who have got this place. We'd better ride up and get a night's lodging."
Leycester looked at him, and smiled suddenly.
"Isn't this rather transparent, Charlie?" he said, calmly. "Of course you intended to come here from the very start, very well."
"Well, I suspect I did," said Lord Charles. "You don't mind?"
Leycester shook his head.
"Not at all. They will let us go to bed, I suppose. You can tell them that you are traveling keeper to a melancholy monomaniac, and they'll leave me alone. Mind, we start in the morning."
"All right," said Lord Charles, chuckling inwardly—"of course; quite so. Come on."
They rode up the avenue, and to the front of a straggling stone mansion, and a groom came forward and took their horses. Lord Charles drew Leycester's arm within his.
"We shall be sure of a welcome."
And he walked up a broad flight of steps.
But Leycester stopped suddenly; for a figure came out of one of the windows, and stood looking down at them.
It was a woman, gracefully and beautifully dressed in some softly-hued evening robe. He could not see her face, but he knew her, and turned almost angrily to Lord Charles. But Lord Charles had slipped away, muttering something about the horses, and Leycester went slowly up.
Lenore—it was she—awaited his approach all unconsciously. She could not see him as plainly as he saw her, and she took him for some strange chance visitor.
But as he came up and stood in front of her she recognized him, and, with a low cry, she moved toward him, her lovely face suddenly smitten pale, her violet eyes fixed on him yearningly.
"Leycester!" she said, and overcome for the moment by the suddenness of his presence, she staggered slightly.
He could do no less than put his arm round her, for he thought she would have fallen, and as he did so his heart reproached him, for the one word "Leycester," and the tone told her story. His mother was right. She loved him.
"Lenore," he said, and his deep, grave, musical voice trembled slightly. She lay back in his arms for a moment, looking up at him with an expression of helpless resignation in her eyes, her lovely face revealed in the light which poured from the window full upon her.
"Lenore," he said, huskily, "what—what is this?"
Her eyes closed for a moment, and a faint thrill ran through her, then she regained her composure, and putting him gently from her, she laughed softly.
"It was your fault," she said, the exquisite voice tremulous with emotion. "Why do you steal upon us like a thief in the night, or—like a ghost? You frightened me."
He stood and looked at her, and put his hand to his brow. He was but mortal, was but a man with a man's passions, a man's susceptibility to woman's loveliness, and he knew that she loved him.
"I——" he said, then stopped. "I did not know. Charlie brought me here. Who are here?"
"They are all here," she said, her eyes downcast. "I will go and tell them lest you frighten them as you frightened me," and she stole away from him like a shadow.
He stood, his hands thrust in his pockets, his eyes fixed on the ground.
She was very beautiful, and she loved him. Why should he not make her happy? make one person happy at least? Not only one person, but his mother, and Lilian—all of them. As for himself, well! one woman was as good as another, seeing that he had lost his darling! And this other was the best and rarest of all that were left.
"Leycester!"
It was his mother's voice. He turned and kissed her; she was not frightened, she did not even kiss him, but she put herhand on his arm, and he felt it tremble, and the way she spoke the word told of all her past sorrow at his absence, and her joy at his return.
"You have come back to us!" she said, and that was all.
"Yes, I have come back!" he said, with something like a sigh.
She looked at him, and the mother's heart was wrung.
"Have you been ill, Leycester?" she asked, quietly.
"Ill, no," he said, then he laughed a strange laugh. "Do I look so seedy, my lady?"
"You look——" she began, with sad bitterness, then she stopped. "Come in."
He followed her in, but at the door he paused and looked out at the night. As he did so, the vision of the slim, graceful girl, of his lost darling, seemed to float before him, with pale face, and wistful, reproachful eyes. He put up his hand with a strange, despairing gesture, and his lips moved.
"Good-bye!" he murmured. "Oh, my lost love, good-bye!"
Lord Charles'little plot had succeeded beyond his expectation. He had restored the prodigal and shared the fatted calf, as he deserved to do. Although it was known all over the house, in five minutes, that Lord Leycester, the heir, had returned, there was no fuss, only a pleasant little simmer of welcome and satisfaction.
The countess had gone to the earl, who was dressing for dinner, to tell him the news.
"Leycester has returned," she said.
The earl started and sent his valet away.
"What!"
"Yes, he has come back to us," she said, sinking into a seat.
"Where from?" he demanded.
She shook her head.
"I don't know. I don't want to know. He must be asked no questions. Lord Charles brought him. I always loved Charles Guildford."
"So you ought, out of pity," said the earl, grimly, "seeing that your son has almost led him to ruin."
Then the countess fired up.
"There must be no talk of that kind," she said. "You do not want to see him go again? No word must be said unless you want to drive him away. He has been ill."
"I am not surprised," said the earl, still a little grimly, "a man can't lead the life he has been leading and keep his health, moral or physical."
"But that is all past," said the countess confidently. "I feel that is all past. If you do not worry him he will stay, and all will go well."
"Oh, I won't worry his Imperial Highness," said the earl, with a smile, "that is what you want me to say, I suppose. And the girl—what about her?"
"I don't know," said the countess with all a mother's supreme indifference for the fate of any other than her son. "She is past, too. I am sure of that. How thankful I am that Lenore is here."
"Ah," said the earl who could be sarcastic when he liked. "So she is to be sacrificed as a thank-offering for the prodigal's return, is she? Poor Lenore, I am almost sorry for her. She is too good for him."
"For shame," exclaimed the countess, flushing; "no one is too good for him. And—and she will not deem it a sacrifice."
"No, I suppose not," he said, fumbling at his necktie. "It is well to be born with a handsome face, and a dare-devil temper, because all women love you then, and the best and fairest think it worth while to offer themselves up. Poor Lenore! Well, I'll be civil to his Highness, notwithstanding that he has spent a small fortune in two months, and declined to honor my house with his presence. There," he added, touching her cheek and smiling, "don't be alarmed. We will kill the fatted calf and make merry—till he goes off again."
The countess was satisfied with this, and went down to find Leycester and Lord Charles standing near the fire. Though they had only rented the place for a month, curtains were up on all the doors, and there was a fire in all the sitting-rooms, and in the earl's apartments.
The countess held out her hand to Lord Charles.
"I am very glad to see you, Charlie," she said, with her rare smile. "You can give me a kiss if you like," and Charlie, as he blushed and kissed the white forehead, knew that she was thanking him for bringing her son back to her.
"But we've got to go back at once," he said, with a laugh.
"We can't sit down in this rig out," and he looked ruefully at his riding suit.
The countess shook her head.
"You shall sit down in a smock frock if you like," she said. "But there is no occasion. I have brought Leycester's things down, and—it's not the first time you have borrowed suits from each other, I expect."
"Not by a many!" laughed Lord Charles. "I'll go and dress. Where is Ley?"
Leycester had gone out of the room quietly, and was then sitting beside Lilian, his hand in hers, her head upon his breast.
"You have come back to us, Ley?" she said, caressing his hand. "It has been so long and weary waiting! You will not go again?"
He paused a moment, then he looked at her.
"No," he said, in a low voice. "No, Lil, I shall not go again."
She kissed him, and as she did so, whispered, anxiously:
"And—and—Stella, Ley?"
His face contracted with a frown of pain and trouble.
"That is all past," he said, using his mother's words; and she kissed him again.
"How thin and worn you look. Oh, Ley!" she murmured, with sorrowful, loving reproach.
He smiled with a touch of bitterness.
"Do I? Well, I will wax fat and grow mirthful for the future," he said, rising. "There is the dinner bell."
"Come to me afterward, Ley," she pleaded, as she let him go, and he promised.
There was to be no fuss, but it was noteworthy that several of Leycester's favorite dishes figured in the menu, and that there was a special Indian curry for Lord Charles.
Leycester did not descend to the dining-room till ten minutes after the time, and the greeting between father and son was characteristic of the two men. The earl put out his thin, white hand, and smiled gravely.
"How do you do, Leycester," he said. "Will you have the Lafitte or the Chateau Margaux? The weather is fine for the time of year."
And Leycester said, quietly:
"I hope you are well, sir. The Margaux, I suppose, Charles? Yes, we have had some good weather."
That was all.
He went to his place and sat down quietly and composedly, as if he had dined with them for months without a break, and as if the papers had not been chronicling his awful doings.
The earl could not suppress a pang of pity as he glanced across at the handsome face and saw how worn and haggard it looked, and he bent his head over his soup with a sigh.
Leycester looked round the table presently, and then turned to the countess.
"Where is Lenore?" he asked.
The countess paused a moment.
"She has rather a bad headache, and begged to be excused," she said.
Leycester bent his head.
"I am sorry," he remarked.
Then the countess talked, and Lord Charles helped her. He was in the best of spirits. The dinner was excellent, and the curry admirable, considering the short notice; and he was delighted with the success of his maneuver. He rattled on in his humorous style, told them all about the hut, and represented that they lived somewhat after the manner of savages.
"Eat our meals with a hunting knife, don't we, Leycester? I hope you'll excuse us if we don't hold our forks properly. I daresay we shall soon get into the way of it again."
All this was very well, and the earl smiled and grew cheerful; but the countess, watching the haggard, handsome face beside her, saw that Leycester was absorbed and pre-occupied. He passed dish after dish, and the Margaux stood beside him almost untouched. She was still anxious and fearful, and as she rose she threw a glance at the earl, half of entreaty, half of command, that he would not "say anything."
"It is nice to get back to the old wine," said Charlie, leaning back in his chair, and eying his glass with complacent approval. "Whisky and water is a fine drink, but one tires of it; now this——" and he reached the claret jug expressively.
The earl talked of politics and the coming hunting season, and still Leycester was silent, eying the white cloth and fingering the stem of his wine glass.
"Will you hunt this year, Leycester?" said the earl, addressing him at last.
He looked up gravely.
"I don't know, sir; only a day a week if I do."
"We shall go to Leicestershire, of course," said the earl. "I shall have to be up for the season, but you can take charge if you will."
Leycester inclined his head.
"Will you see to the horses?" asked the earl.
Leycester thought a moment.
"I shall only want two," he said; "the rest will be sold."
"Do you mean the stud?" asked the earl, with a faint air of surprise.
"Yes," said Leycester, quietly. "I shall sell them all. I shall not race again."
The earl understood him; the old wild life was to come to an end. But he put in a word.
"Is that wise?" he said.
"I think so," said Leycester. "Quite enough money has been spent. Yes, I shall sell."
"Very well," assented the earl, who could not but agree with the remark respecting money. "After all, I imagine one tires of the turf. I always thought it a great bore."
"So it is—so it is," said Lord Charles, cheerfully. "Everything is a bore."
The earl smiled.
"Not everything," he said. "Leycester, you are not touching the wine," he added, graciously.
Leycester filled his glass and drank it, and then, to Charles' surprise, refilled it, not once only, but twice and thrice, as if he had suddenly become thirsty.
Presently the earl, after vainly pushing the decanter to them, rose, and they followed him into the drawing-room.
The countess sat at her tea-table, and beside her was Lenore. She was rather paler than usual, and the beautiful eyes were of a deep violet under the long sweeping lashes. She was exquisitely dressed, but there was not a single jewel about her; a spray of white orchid nestled on her bosom and shone in her golden hair, showing the exquisite delicacy of the fair face and throat. Leycester glanced at her, but took his cup of tea without a word, and Lord Charles made all the conversation, as at the dinner-table.
Presently Leycester put down his cup and walked to the window, and drawing the curtain aside, stood looking out at the night. There was a flush of color in his face, owing perhaps to the Margaux, and a strange light in his eyes. What did he see in the darkness? Was it the spirit of Stella to whom he had saidfarewell? He stood wrapt in thought, the buzz of conversation and the occasional laugh of Charlie behind him; then suddenly he turned and went up to the silent figure with the while flower in its bosom and its hair, and sat down beside her.
"Are you better?" he asked.
She just glanced at him, and smiled slowly.
"Yes, I am quite well. It was only a headache."
"Are you well enough to come on to the terrace—there is a terrace, is there not?"
"A balcony."
"Will you come? It is quite warm."
She rose at once, and he took up a shawl and put it round her, and offered her his arm.
She just laid her finger-tips on it, and he led her to the window. She drew back, and smiled over her shoulder.
"It is a capital offence to open a window at night."
"I forgot," he said. "You see, I am so great a stranger, that I fail to remember the habits of my own people. Will you show me the way round?"
"This way," she said; and opening a small door, she took him into a conservatory, and thence to the balcony.
They were silent for a moment or two—he looking at the stars, she with eyes bent to the ground. He was fighting for resolution and determination, she was silently waiting, knowing what was passing in his heart, and wondering, with a throbbing heart, whether her hour of triumph had come.
She had stooped to the very dust to win him, to snatch him from that other girl who had ensnared him; but as she stood now and glanced at him—at the tall, graceful figure, and the handsome face, all the handsomer in her eyes for its haggardness—she felt that she could have stooped still lower if it had been possible. Her heart beat with expectant passion—she longed for the moment when she could rest upon his breast and confess her love. Why did he not speak?
He turned to her at last, and spoke.
"Lenore," he said, and his voice was deep and earnest, almost solemn, "I want to ask you a question. Will you answer me?"
"Ask it," she said, and she raised her eyes to his with a sudden flash.
"When you saw me to-night, when I came in unexpectedly, you were—moved. Was it because you were glad to see me?"
She was silent a moment.
"Is that a fair question?" she murmured.
"Yes," he said. "Yes, Lenore; we will not trifle with each other, you and I. If you were glad to see me, do not hesitate to say so; it is not idle vanity that prompts the question."
She faltered and turned her head away.
"Why will you press me?" she murmured in a low, tremulous voice. "Do you wish to see me ashamed?" Then she turned to him suddenly, and the violet eyes met his with a light of passionatelove in their depths. "But I will answer it," she said. "Yes, I was glad."
He was silent for a moment, then he drew closer to her and bent over her.
"Lenore, will you be my wife?"
She did not speak, but looked at him.
"Will you be my wife?" he repeated, almost fiercely; her supreme loveliness was telling upon him; the light in her eyes was sinking to his heart and stirring his pulses. "Tell me, Lenore, do you love me?"
Her head drooped, then she sighed.
"Yes, I love you," she said, and almost imperceptibly swayed toward him.
He took her in his arms, his heart beating, his brain whirling, for the memory of that other love seemed to haunt him even at that moment.
"You love me!" he murmured, hoarsely, looking back on the night of the past. "Can it be true, Lenore? You!"
She nestled on his breast and looked up at him, and from the pale face the dark eyes gleamed passionately.
"Leycester," she breathed, "you know I love you! You know it!"
He pressed her closer to him, then a hoarse cry broke from him.
"God forgive me!"
It was a strange response at such a moment.
"Why do you say that?" she asked, looking up at him; his face was haggard and remorseful, anything but as a lover's face should be, but he smiled gravely and kissed her.
"It is strange!" he said, as if in explanation—"strange that I should have won your love, I who am so unworthy, while you are so peerless!"
She trembled a little with a sudden qualm of fear. If he could but know of what she had been guilty to win him! It was she who was unworthy! But she put the fear from her. She had got him, and she did not doubt her power to hold him.
"Do not speak of unworthiness," she murmured, lovingly. "We have both passed through the world, Leycester, and have learned to value true love. You have always had mine," she added, in a faint whisper.
What could he do but kiss her? But even as he took her in his arms and laid his hand on the shapely head with its golden wealth, a subtle pain thrilled at his heart, and he felt as if he were guilty of some treachery.
They stood for some time almost in silence—she was too wise to disturb his mood—side by side; then he put her arm in his.
"Let us go in," he said. "Shall I tell my mother to-night, Lenore?"
"Why not," she murmured, leaning against him, and with the upturned eyes glowing into his with suppressed passion and devotion. "Why not? Will they not be glad, do you think?"
"Yes," he said, and he remembered how differently Stella had spoken. "After all," he thought with a sigh, "I shall make agreat many persons happy and comfortable. Very well," he said, "I will see them."
He stooped to kiss her before they passed into the light, and she did not shrink from his kiss; but put up her lips and met it with one in return.
There were men, and not a few, who would have given some years of their life for such a kiss from the beautiful Lenore, but he, Leycester, took it without a thrill, without an extra heartbeat.
There was not much need to tell them what had happened; the countess knew in a moment by Lenore's face—pale, but with a light of triumph glowing in it—that the hour had come, and that she had won.
In her graceful manner, she went up to the countess, and bent over to kiss her.
"I am going up now, dear," she said, in a whisper. "I am rather tired."
The countess embraced her.
"Not too tired to see me if I come?" she said, in a whisper, and Lady Lenore shook her head.
She put her hand in Leycester's for a moment, as he opened the door for her, and looked into his face; but he would not let her go so coldly, and raising her hand to his lips, said—
"Good-night, Lenore."
The earl started and stared at this familiar salutation, and Lord Charles raised his eyebrows; but Leycester came to the fire, and stood looking into it for a minute in silence.
Then he turned to them and said, in his quiet way—
"Lenore has promised to be my wife. Have you any objection, sir?"
The earl started and looked at him, and then held out his hand with an emphatic nod.
"Objection! It is about the wisest thing you ever did, Leycester."
Leycester smiled at him strangely, and turned to his mother. She did not speak, but her eyes filled, and she put her hand on his shoulder and kissed him.
"My dear Leycester, I congratulate you!" exclaimed Charlie, wringing his hand and beaming joyously. "'Pon my word, this is the—the happiest thing we've come across for many a day! By George!"
And having dropped Leycester's hand, he seized that of the earl, and wrung that, and would in turn have seized the countess's, had she not given it to him of her own free will.
"We have to thank you in some measure for this, Charles," she said, in a low voice, and with a grateful smile.
Leycester leant against the mantel-shelf, his hands behind him, his face set and thoughtful, almost absent, indeed. He had the appearance of a man in a dream.
The earl roused him with a word or two.
"This is very good news, Leycester."
"I am very glad you are pleased, sir," said Leycester, quietly.
"I am more than pleased, I am delighted," responded theearl, in his quiet way. "I may say that it is the fulfillment of a hope I have cherished for some time. I trust, more, I believe, you will be happy. If you are not," he added, with a smile, "it will be your own fault."
Leycester smiled grimly.
"No doubt, sir," he said.
The old earl passed his white hands over each other—just as he did in the House when he was about to make a speech.
"Lenore is one of the most beautiful and charming women it has been my fate to meet; she has been regarded by your mother, and I may say by myself, as a daughter. The prospect of receiving her at your hands as one in very truth affords me the most intense pleasure."
"Thank you, sir," said Leycester.
The earl coughed behind his hand.
"I suppose," he said, with a glance at the haggard face, "there will be no delay in making your happiness complete?"
Leycester almost started.
"You mean——?"
"I mean your marriage," said the earl, staring at him, and wondering why he should be so dense and altogether grim, "of course, of course, your marriage. The sooner the better, my dear Leycester. There will be preparations to make, and they always take time. I think, if you can persuade Lenore to fix an early date, I would see Harbor and Harbor"—the family solicitors—"at once. I need hardly say that anything I can do to expedite matters I will do gladly. I think you always had a fancy for the place in Scotland—you shall have that; and as to the house in town, well if you haven't already thought of a place, there is the house in the square——"
Leycester's face flushed for a moment.
"You are very good to me, sir," he said; and for the first time his voice showed some feeling.
"Nonsense!" said the earl cordially. "You know that I would do anything, everything to make your future a happy one. Talk it over with Lenore!"
"I will, sir," said Leycester. "I think I will go up to Lilian now, she expects me."
The earl took his hand and shook it as he had not shaken it for many a day, and Leycester went up-stairs.
The countess had left the room, but he found her waiting for him.
"Good-night, mother," he said.
"Oh, Leycester, you have made me—all of us—so happy!"
"Ay," he said, and he smiled at her. "I am very glad. Heaven knows I have often enough made you unhappy, mother."
"No, no," she said, kissing him; "this makes up for all—for all!"
Leycester watched her as she went down-stairs, and a sigh broke from him.
"Not one of them understands, not one," he murmured.
But there was one watching for him who understood.
"Leycester," she said, holding out her hands to him and almost rising.
He sat on the head of the couch and put his hand on her head.
"Mamma has just told me, Ley," she murmured. "I am so glad, so glad. I have never been so happy."
He was silent, his fingers caressing her cheek.
"It is what we have all been hoping and praying for, Ley! She is so good and sweet, and so true."
"Yes," he said, little guessing at her falsity.
"And, Ley—she loves you so dearly."
"Aye," he said, with almost a groan.
She looked up at him and saw his face, and her own changed color; her hand stole up to his.
"Oh, Ley, Ley," she murmured, piteously. "You have forgotten all that?"
He smiled, not bitterly but sadly.
"Forgotten? No," he said; "such things are not easily forgotten. But it is past, and I am going to forget now, Lil."
Even as he spoke he seemed to see the loving face, with its trusting smile, floating before him.
"Yes, Ley, dear Ley, for her sake. For Lenore's sake."
"Yes," he said, grimly, "for hers and for my own."
"You will be so happy; I know it, I feel it. No one could help loving her, and every day you will learn to love her more dearly, and the past will fade away and be forgotten, Ley."
"Yes," he said, in a low, absent voice.
She said no more, and they sat hand in hand wrapped in thought. Even when he got up to go he said nothing, and his hand as it held hers was as cold as ice.
Ithad come so suddenly as to almost overwhelm her; the great gift of the gods that she had been waiting, aye, and plotting for, had fallen to her at last, and her cup of triumph was full to overbrimming, but at the same time she, as Lord Charles would have put it, "kept her head." She thoroughly understood how and why she had gained her will. She could read Leycester as if he were a book, and she knew that, although he had asked her to be his wife, he had not forgotten that other girl with the brown hair and dark eyes—that "Stella," the painter's niece.
This was a bitter pang to her, a drop of gall to her cup, but she accepted it.
Just as Jasper said of Stella, so she said of Leycester.
"I will make him love me!" she thought. "The time shall come when he will wonder how he came to think of that other, and be filled with self-contempt for having so thought of her." And she set about her work well. Some women in the hour of their triumph, would have shown their delight, and so worried, or perhaps disgusted, their lover; but not so did Lady Lenore.
She took matters with an ineffable calm and serenity, andnever for one moment allowed it to be seen how much she had gained on that eventful evening.
To Leycester her manner was simply charming. She exerted herself to win him without permitting the effort to be even guessed at.
Her very beauty seemed to grow more brilliant and bewitching. She moved about the place "like a poem," as Lord Charles declared. Her voice, always soft and musical, with unexpected harmonies, that charmed by their very surprises, was like music; and, more important still, it was seldom heard. She exacted none of the privileges of an engaged woman; she did not expect Leycester to sit with her by the hour, or walk about with her all day, or to whisper tender speeches, and lavish secret caresses. Indeed, she almost seemed to avoid being alone with him; in fact she humored him to the top of his bent, so that he did not even feel the chain with which he had bound himself.
And he was grateful to her; gradually the charm of her presence, the music of her voice, the feeling that she belonged to him told upon him, and he found himself at times sitting, watching, and listening to her with a strange feeling of pleasure. He was only mortal and she was not only supremely beautiful, but supremely clever. She had set herself to charm him, and he would have been less, or more than man, if he had been able to resist her.
So it happened that he was left much to himself, for Charlie, thinking himself ratherde tropand in the way, had taken himself off to join his shooting party, and Leycester spent most of his time wandering about the coast or riding over the hills, generally returning at dinner-time tired and thoughtful, and very often expecting some word or look of complaint from his beautiful betrothed.
But they never came. Exquisitely dressed, she always met him with the same serene smile, in which there was just a suggestion of tenderness she could not express, and never a question as to where he had been.
After dinner he would come and sit beside her, leaning back and watching her, too often absently, and listening to her as she talked to the others. To him she very seldom said much, but if he chanced to ask her for anything—to play or to sing—she obeyed instantly, as if he were already her lord and master. It touched him, her simple-minded devotion and thorough comprehension of him—touched him as no display of affection on her part would have done.
"Heaven help her, she loves me!" he thought, often and often. "And I!"
One evening they chanced to be alone together—he had come in after dinner, having eaten some sort of meal at a shooting lodge on the adjoining estate—and found her seated by the window, her white hands in her lap, a rapt look on her face.
She looked so supremely lovely, so rapt and solitary that his heart smote him, and he went up to her, his step making no sound on the thick carpet, and kissed her.
She started and looked up with a burning blush which transfigured her for a moment, then she said, quietly:
"Is that you, Leycester? Have you dined?"
"Yes," he said, with a pang of self-reproach. "Why should you think of that? I do not deserve that you should care whether I dine or not."
She smiled up at him; her eyebrows arched themselves.
"Should it not? But I do care, very much. Have you?"
He nodded impatiently.
"Yes. You do not even ask me where I have been?"
"No," she murmured, softly. "I can wait until you tell me; it is for you to tell me, and for me to wait."
Such submission, such meekness from her who was pride and hauteur personified to others, amazed him.
"By Heaven, Lenore!" he exclaimed, in a low voice, "there never was a woman like you."
"No?" she said. "I am glad you will have something that is unique then."
"Yes," he said, "I shall." Then he said, suddenly, "When am I to possess my gem, Lenore?"
She started, and turned her face from him.
He looked down at her, and put his hand on her shoulder, white and warm and responsive to his touch.
"Lenore, let it be soon. We will not wait. Why should we? Let us make ourselves and all the rest of them happy."
"Will it make you happy?" she asked.
It was a dangerous question, but the impulse was too strong.
"Yes," he said, and indeed he thought so. "Can you say the same, Lenore?"
She did not answer, but she took his hand and laid it against her cheek. It was the action of a slave—a beautiful and exquisitely-graceful woman, but a slave.
He drew his hand away and winced with remorse.
"Come," he said, bending over her, "let me tell them that it shall be next month."
"So soon?" she murmured.
"Yes," he said, almost impatiently. "Why should we wait? They are all impatient. I am impatient, naturally, but they all wish it. Let it be next month, Lenore."
She looked up at him.
"Very well," she said, in a low voice.
He bent over her, and put his arm round her, and there was something almost desperate in his face as he looked up at her.
"Lenore," he said, in a low voice, "I wish, to Heaven I wish I were worthy of you!"
"Hush!" she whispered, "you are too good to me. I am quite content, Leycester—quite content."
Then, as her head rested on his shoulder, she whispered, "There is only one thing, Leycester, I should like——"
She paused.
"What is it, Lenore?"
"It is about the place," she said. "You will not mind whereit takes place, will you? I do not want to be married at Wyndward."
This was so exactly in accordance with his own wishes that he started.
"Not at Wyndward!" he said, hesitating. "Why?"
She was silent a moment.
"Fancy," she said, with a little rippling laugh. "Fancies are permitted one at such times, you know."
"Yes, yes," he said. "I know my mother and father would wish it to be there—or in London."
"Nor in London," she said, almost quickly. "Leycester, why should it not be here?"
He was silent. This again would be in accordance with his own desire.
"I should like a quiet wedding," she said. "Oh! very quiet."
"You!" he exclaimed, incredulously. "You, whose marriage would at any time have so much interest for the world in which you have moved—reigned, rather!"
She laughed again.
"It has always been one of my day-dreams to steal away to church with the man I loved, and be married without the usual fuss and formality."
He looked at her with a gleam of pleasure and relief in his eyes, little dreaming that it was for his sake she had made the proposal.
"How strange!" he muttered. "It—well, it is unlike what one fancies of you, Lenore."
"Perhaps," she said, with a smile, "but it is true, nevertheless. If I may choose, I would like to go down to the little church there, and be married like a farmer's daughter, or, if not that exactly, as quietly as possible."
He rose and stood looking out of the window, thoughtfully.
"I shall never understand you, Lenore." he said; "but this pleases me very much indeed. It has always been my day-dream, as you call it,"—he smothered a sigh. "Certainly it shall be as you wish! Why should it not be?"
"Very well," she said; "then that is agreed. No announcements, no fuss, no St. George's, Hanover Square, and no bishop!" and she rose and laughed softly.
He looked at her, and smiled.
"You appear in a new light every day, Lenore," he said. "If you had expressed my own thoughts and desires, you could not have hit them off more exactly; what will the mother say?"
The countess had a great deal to say about the matter. She declared that it was absurd, that it was worse than absurd; it was preposterous.
"It is all very well to talk of a farmer's daughter, my dear, but you are not a farmer's daughter; you are Lady Lenore Beauchamp, and he is the next earl. The world will say you have both taken leave of your senses."
Lenore looked at her with a sudden gleam in her violet eyes.
"Do you think I care?" she said, in a low voice—Leycester was not present. "I would not care whether we were marriedin Westminster Abbey, by the archbishop himself, with all the Court in attendance, or in a village chapel. It is not I, though I say so. It is for him. Say no more about it, dear Lady Wyndward; his lightest wish is law to me."
And the countess obeyed. The passionate devotion of the haughty beauty astonished even her, who knew something of what a woman's love can be capable of.
"My dear," she murmured, "do not give way too much."
The beauty smiled a strange smile.
"It is not a question of giving way," she retorted, with suppressed emotion. "It is simply that his wish is my law; I have but to obey—it will always be so, always." Then she slipped down beside the countess, and looked up with a sudden pallor.
"Do you not understand yet how I love him?" she said, with a smile. "No, I do not think anyone can understand but myself—but myself!"
The earl offered no remonstrance or objection.
"What does it matter!" he said. "The place is of no consequence. The marriage is the thing. The day Leycester is married, a heavy load of care and apprehension and I shall be divorced. Let them be married where they like, in Heaven's name."
So Harbor and Harbor were set to work, and the principal of that old-established and aristocratic firm came all the way down to Devonshire, and was closeted with the earl for a couple of hours, and the settlement deeds were put in hand.
Lady Lenore's fortune, which was a large one, was to be settled upon herself, supplemented by another large fortune from the hand of the earl. So large, that the lawyer ventured on a word of remonstrance, but the earl put it aside with a wave of the hand.
"It is the same amount as that which was settled upon the countess," he said. "Why should my son's wife have less?"
Quiet as the betrothal had been, and quietly as the nuptials were to be, rumors had spread, and presents were arriving daily. If Lenore could have found any particular pleasure in precious gems, and gold-fitted dressing-bags, and ivory prayer-books, there they were in endless variety for her delight, but they afforded her none beyond the fact of their being evidence of her coming happiness.
One present alone brought her joy, and that was Leycester's, and that not because the diamonds of which the necklet was composed were large and almost priceless, but for the fact that he fastened the jewels round her neck with his own hands.
"These are my necklets," she murmured, taking his hands as they touched her neck and pressing them.
How could he resist her?
And yet as the time moved on with that dogged obstinacy which it assumes for us while we would rather have it pause awhile, something of the old moodiness seemed to take possession of him. The long walks and rides grew longer, and often he would not return until late in the night, and then weary and listless. At such times it was Lenore who made excuses forhim, if by chance the countess uttered a word of comment or complaint.
"Why should he not do as he likes?" she said, with a smile. "It is I who am the slave, not he."
But alone in her chamber, where already the signs of the approaching wedding were showing themselves in the shape of new dresses and weddingtrousseau, the anguish of unrequited love overmastered her. Pacing to and fro, with clasped hands and pale face, she would utter the old moan, the old prayer, which the gods have heard since the world was young:
"Give me his love—give me his love! Take all else but let his heart turn to me, and to me only!"
If Stella could have known it, she was justly avenged already. Not even the anguish she had endured surpassed that of the proud beauty who had helped to rob her, and who had given her own heart to the man who had none to give her in return.
"Itcertainly must have been made a hundred years after the rest of the world," said Mr. Etheridge. "Where on earth did you hear of it, Jasper?"
They were standing, the painter, Jasper, and Stella, on the little stretch of beach that fronted the tiny village of Carlyon, with its cluster of rough-stone cottages and weather-beaten church, the whole nestling under the shadow of the Cornish cliffs that kept the east winds at bay and offered a stern face to the wild seas which so often roared and raged at its base.
Jasper smiled.
"I can't exactly say, sir," he answered. "I met with it by chance, and it seemed to me just the place for our young invalid. You like it, Stella, I hope?" and he turned to Stella with a softened smile.
Stella was leaning on the old man's arm, looking out to sea, with a far-away expression in her dark eyes.
"Yes," she said, quietly; "I like it."
"Stella likes any place that is far from the madding crowd," remarked Mr. Etheridge, gazing at her affectionately. "You don't appear to have got back your roses yet, my child, however."
"I am quite well," she said, not so wearily as indifferently. "I am always well. It is Frank who is ill, you know, uncle."
"Ay, ay," he said, with the expression of gravity which always came upon him when the boy was mentioned. "He looks very pale and thin, poor boy."
Stella sighed, but Jasper broke in cheerfully—
"Better than when he first came," he said. "I noticed the difference directly I saw him. He will pick up his strength famously, you will see."
Stella sighed again.
"You must make sketches of this coast," said Jasper, as if anxious to get away from the subject. "It is particularly picturesque, especially about the cliffs. There is one view in particularwhich you should not fail to take; you get it from the top of the cliff there."
"Rather a dangerous perch," said Mr. Etheridge, shading his eyes and looking up.
"Yes, it is," assented Jasper. "I have been trying to impress the fact upon Stella. It is her favorite haunt, she tells me, and I am always in fear and trembling when I see her mounting up to it."
The old man smiled.
"You will soon have the right to protect her," he said, glancing at the church. "Have you made all the arrangements?"
Jasper's face flushed as he answered, but Stella's remained pale and set.
"Yes, everything is ready. The clergyman is a charming old gentleman, and the church is a picture inside. I tell Stella that one could not have chosen a more picturesque spot."
And he glanced toward her with the watchful smile.
Stella turned her face away.
"It is very pretty," she said, simply. "Shall we go in now? Frank will be expecting us."
"You must know," said Jasper, "that we are leading the most rustic of lives—dinner in the middle of the day, tea at five o'clock."
"I see," said Mr. Etheridge. "Quite a foretaste of Arcadia! But, after all," he added, perhaps remembering the long journey which he had been compelled to take, and which he disliked, "I can't see why you should not have been married at Wyndward."
Jasper smiled.
"And risk the chance of Lord Leycester turning up at the last moment and making a scene," he might have answered, if he had replied candidly; but instead, he said, lightly:
"Oh, that would have been too commonplace for such a romantic man as your humble servant, sir."
Mr. Etheridge eyed him in his usual grave, abstracted way.
"You are the last person I should have accused of a love of the romantic," he said.
"Then there was Frank," added Jasper, in a lower voice, but not too low to reach Stella, for whom the addition was intended; "he wanted a change, and he would not have come without Stella."
They entered the cottage, in the tiny sitting-room of which Mrs. Penfold had already set the tea.
Frank was lying on a sofa whose metallic hardness had been mitigated by cushions and pillows; and certainly if he was pulling up his strength, as Jasper asserted, it was at a very slow rate.
He looked thinner than ever, and there was a dark ring under his eyes which made the hectic flush still more beautiful by contrast than when we saw him last. He greeted their entrance with a smile at Stella, and a cold evasive glance at Jasper. She went and smoothed the pillow at his head; but, as if ashamed that the other should see his weakness, he rose and walked to the door.
The old man eyed him sadly, but smiled with affected cheerfulness.
"Well, Frank, how do you feel to-night? You must be well to the front to-morrow, you know, or you will not be the best man!"
Frank looked up with a sudden flush, then set down without a word.
"I shall be very well to-morrow," he said. "There is nothing the matter with me."
Jasper, as usual, cut in with some remark to change the subject, and, as usual, did all the talking; Stella sat silent, her eyes fixed on the distant sun sinking slowly to rest. The word "to-morrow" rang in her ears; this was the last day she could call her own; to-morrow, and all after to-morrows would be Jasper's. All the past, full of its sweet hopes and its passionate love, had gone by and vanished, and to-morrow she would stand at the altar as Jasper Adelstone's bride. It seemed so great a mockery as to be unreal, and at times she found herself regarding herself as another person, in whom she took the merest interest as a spectator.
It could not be that she, whom Leycester Wyndward had loved, should be going to marry Jasper Adelstone! Then she would look at the boy, so thin, and wan, and fading, and love would give her strength to carry out her sacrifice.
To-night he was very dear to her, and she sat holding his hand under the table; the thin, frail hand that closed with a spasmodic gesture of aversion when Jasper's smirkish voice broke in on the conversation. It was wonderful how the boy hated him.
Presently she whispered—"You must go and lie down again, Frank."
"No, not here," he said. "Let me go outside."
And she drew his hand through her arm and went out with him.
Jasper looked after them with a smile.
"Quite touching to see Frank's devotion to Stella," he said.
The old man nodded.
"Poor boy!" he said—"poor boy!"
Jasper cleared his throat.
"I think he had better come with us on our wedding trip," he said. "It will give Stella pleasure, I know, and be a comfort to Frank."
The old man nodded.
"You are very kind and considerate," he said.
"Not at all," responded Jasper. "I would do anything to insure Stella's happiness. By-the-way, speaking of arrangements, I have executed a little deed of settlement——"
"Was that necessary?" asked Mr. Etheridge. "She comes to you penniless."
"I am not a rich man," said Jasper, meekly, "but I have secured a sufficient sum upon her to render her independent."
The old man nodded, gratefully.
"You have behaved admirably," he said; "I have no doubt Stella will be happy. You will bear with her, I hope, Jasper, and not forget that she is but a girl—but a girl."
Jasper inclined his head for a moment in silence. Bear! Little did the old man know how much he, Jasper, had to bear.
They sat talking for some little time, Jasper listening, as he talked, to the two voices outside—the clear, low, musical tones of Stella, the thin weak voice of the boy. Presently the voices ceased, and after a time he went out. Frank was sitting in the sunset light, his head on his hands.
"Where is Stella?" asked Jasper, almost sharply.
Frank looked up at him.
"She has escaped," he said, sardonically.
Jasper started.
"What do you mean?"
"She has gone on the cliffs for a stroll," said Frank, with a little smile at the alarm he had created and intended to create.
Jasper turned upon him with a suppressed snarl. He was battling with suppressed excitement to-night.
"What do you mean by escaped?" he demanded.
The hollow sunken eyes glared up at him.
"What did you think I meant?" he retorted. "You need not be frightened, she will come back," and he laughed bitterly.
Jasper glanced at him again, and after a moment of hesitation turned and went into the house.
Meanwhile Stella was climbing the steep ascent to the bit of table-land on the cliff. She felt suffocated and overwhelmed. "To-morrow! to-morrow!" seemed to ring in her ears. Was there no escape? As she looked down at the waves rolling in beneath her, and beating their crested heads against the rocks, she almost felt as if she could drop down to them and so find escape and rest. So strong was the feeling, the temptation, that she shrank back against the cliff, and sank down on dry and chalky turf, trembling and confused. Suddenly, as she thus sat, she heard a man's step coming up the cliff, and thinking it was Jasper, rose and pushed the hair from her face with an effort at self-command.
But it was not Jasper, it was a straighter, more stalwart figure, and in a moment, as he stood to look at the sea, she knew him. It was Leycester, and with a low, inarticulate cry, she shrank back against the cliff and watched him. He stood for a while motionless, leaning on his stick, his back turned from her, then he took up a pebble and dropped it down into the depths beneath, sighed, and to her intense relief, went down again.
But though he had not spoken, the sight of him, his dearly-loved presence so near her, shook her to her center. White and breathless she leaned against the hard rock, her eyes strained to catch the last glimpse of him; then she sank on to the ground and hiding her face in her hands burst into tears.
They were the first tears that she had shed since that awful day, and every drop seemed of molten fire that scorched her heart as it flowed from it.
If ever she had persuaded herself that the time might come when she would cease to love him, she knew, now that she had seen him again, that she could not so hope again. Never whilelife was left to her should she cease to love him. And to-morrow, to-morrow.
"Oh, my love, my love!" she murmured, stretching out her hands as she had done that night in the garden, "come back to me! I cannot let you go! I cannot do it! I cannot!"
Nerved by the intensity of her grief she sprang to her feet, and swiftly descended the cliff. Near the bottom there were two paths, one leading to the village, the other to the open country beyond. Instinctively she took the one leading to the village, and so missed Leycester, for he had gone down the other.
Had she but made a different choice, had she turned to the right instead of the left, how much would have been averted; but she sped, almost breathlessly to the left, and instead of Leycester found Jasper waiting for her.
With a low cry she stopped short.
"Where is he?" she asked, almost unconsciously. "Let me go to him!"
Jasper stared at her, then he grasped her arm.
"You have seen him!" he said, not roughly, not fiercely, but with a suppressed fury.
There was a rough seat cut out of the stone beside her, and she sank into it, shrinking away from his eager watching in quest of that other.
"You have seen him!" he repeated, hoarsely. "Do not deny it!"
The insult conveyed in the words recalled her to herself.
"Yes!" she said, meeting his gaze steadily; "I have seen him. Why should I deny it?"
"No," he said; "and you will not deny that you were running after him when I—I stopped you. You will admit that, I suppose?"
"Yes," she answered, with a deadly calm, "I was following him."
He dropped her arm which he had held, and pressed his hand to his heart to still the pang of its throbbing.
"You—you are shameless!" he said at last, hoarsely.
She did not speak.
"Do you realize what to-night is?" he said, glaring down at her. "This is our marriage eve; do you hear—our marriage eve?"
She shuddered, and put up her hands to her face.
"Did you plan this meeting?" he demanded, with a fierce sneer. "You will admit that, I suppose? It is only a mere chance that I did not find you in his arms; is that so? Curse him! I wish I had killed him when I met him just now!"
Then the old spirit roused itself in her bosom, and she looked up at him with a scornful smile on her beautiful, wasting face.
"You!" she said.
That was all, but it seemed to drive him mad. For a moment he stood breathless and panting.
The sight of his fury and suffering—for the suffering was palpable—smote her.
Her mood changed suddenly; with a cry she caught his arm.
"Oh, Jasper, Jasper! Have pity on me!" she cried; "have pity. You wrong me, you wrong him. He did not come to see me; he did not know I was here! We have not spoken—not a word, not a word!" and she moaned; "but as I stood and watched him, and saw how changed he was, and heard him sigh, I knew that he had not forgotten, and—and my heart went out to him. I—I did not mean to speak, to follow him, but I could not help it. Jasper, you see—you see, it is impossible—our marriage, I mean. Have pity on me and let me go! For your own sake let me go! Think, think! What satisfaction, what joy can you hope for? I—I have tried to love you, Jasper, but—but I cannot! All my life is his! Let me go!"
He almost flung her from him, then caught her again with an oath.
"By Heaven, I will not!" he cried, fiercely. "Once for all, I will not! Take care, you have made me desperate! It is your fault if I were to take you at your word."
He paused for breath; then his rage broke out again, more deadly for its sudden, unnatural quietude.
"Do you think I am blind and bereft of my senses not to see and understand what this means? Do you think you are dealing with a child? You have waited your time, and bided your chance, and you think it has come. Would you have dared to do this a month ago? No, there was no certainty of the boy's death then; but now—now that you see he will die, you think my power is at an end——"
With a cry she sprang to her feet and confronted him, terror in her face, an awful fear and sorrow in her eyes. As the cry left her lips, it seemed to be echoed by another close behind them, but neither of them noticed it.
"Frank—die!" she gasped. "No, no; not that! Tell me that you did not mean it, that you said it only to frighten me."
He put her imploring hand away with a bitter sneer.
"You would make a good actress," he said, "do you mean to tell me that you were not counting on his death? Do you mean to tell me that you would not have wound up the scene by begging for more time—time to allow you to escape, as you would call it! You think that once the boy is dead you can slip from your bargain and laugh at me! You are mistaken; since the bargain was struck, I have strove, as no man ever strove, to make it easy for you, to win your love, because I loved you. I love you no longer, but I will not let you go. Love you! As there is a Heaven above us, I hate you to-night, but you shall not go."
She shrank from him cowering, as he towered above her, like some beautiful maiden in the old myths shrinking from some devouring monster.
"Listen to me," he said, hoarsely, "to-morrow I either give this paper"—and he snatched the forged bill from his breast pocket and struck it viciously with his quivering hand—"I either give it into your hands as my wife, or I give it to thenearest magistrate. The boy will die! It rests with you whether he dies at peace or in a jail."
White and trembling she sat and looked at him.
"This is my answer to your pretty prayer," he said, with a bitterness incredible. "It is for you to decide—I use no further argument. Soft speeches and loving words are thrown away upon you; besides, the time has passed for them. There is no love, no particle of love, in my heart for you to-night—I simply stand by my bond."
She did not answer him, she scarcely heard him; she was thinking of that sad face that had appeared to her for a moment as if in reproach, and vanished ghost-like; and it was to it that she murmured:
"Oh, my love—my love!"
He heard her; and his face quivered with speechless rage; then he laughed.
"You made a great mistake," he said, with a sneer—"a very great mistake, if you are invoking Lord Leycester Wyndward. He may be your love, but you are not his! It is a matter of small moment—it does not weigh a feather in the balance between us—but the truth is, 'your love' is now Lady Lenore Beauchamp's!"
Stella looked up at him, and smiled wearily.
"A lie? No," he said, shaking his head tauntingly. "I have known it for weeks past. It is in every London paper. But that is nothing as between you and me—I stand by my bond. To-morrow the boy's fate lies in your hands or in that of the police. I have no more to say—I await your answer. I do not even demand it to-night—no doubt you would be——"
She arose, white and calm, her eyes fixed on him.
"—I say I await your answer till to-morrow. Acts, not words, I require. Fulfill your part of the bargain, and I will fulfill mine."
As he spoke he folded the forged bill which, in his excitement, had blown open, and put it slowly into his pocket again; then he wiped his brow and looked at her, biting his lip moodily.
"Will you come with me now," he said, "or will you wait and consider your course of action?"
His question seemed to rouse her; she raised her head, and disregarding his proffered arm, went slowly past him to the house.