NEW BERTHA CLAY LIBRARY ~ No. 226 ~

LOVED AND LOST

BY

Bertha M. Clay

A FAVORITE OF MILLIONS

New Bertha Clay Library

LOVE STORIES WITH PLENTY OF ACTION

PRICE, FIFTEEN CENTS

The Author Needs No Introduction

Countless millions of women have enjoyed the works of this author. They are in great demand everywhere. The following list contains her best work, and is the only authorized edition.

These stories teem with action, and what is more desirable, they are clean from start to finish. They are love stories, but are of a type that is wholesome and totally different from the cheap, sordid fiction that is being published by unscrupulous publishers.

There is a surprising variety about Miss Clay’s work. Each book in this list is sure to give satisfaction.

ALL TITLES ALWAYS IN PRINT

In order that there may be no confusion, we desire to say that the books listed below will be issued during the respective months in New York City and vicinity. They may not reach the readers at a distance promptly, on account of delays in transportation.

To Be Published in July, 1923.

To Be Published in August, 1923.

To Be Published in September, 1923.

To Be Published in October, 1923.

To Be Published in November, 1923.

To Be Published in December, 1923.

LOVE STORIES

All the world loves a lover. That is why Bertha M. Clay ranks so high in the opinion of millions of American readers who prefer a good love story to anything else they can get in the way of reading matter.

These stories are true to life—that’s why they make such a strong appeal. Read one of them and judge.

LOVED AND LOST

OR,

A Deadly Secret

BY

BERTHA M. CLAY

Whose complete works will be published in this, the New
Bertha Clay Library.

STREET & SMITH CORPORATION
PUBLISHERS
79-89 Seventh Avenue, New York

(Printed in the United States of America)

LOVED AND LOST.

CONTENTS

[CHAPTER I. UNDER THE GREENWOOD-TREE.]
[CHAPTER II. ADIEU.]
[CHAPTER III. A RUSE DE GUERRE.]
[CHAPTER IV. TUROY GRANGE.]
[CHAPTER V. WOMAN’S WAYS.]
[CHAPTER VI. THE LAST WALTZ.]
[CHAPTER VII. A NOBLE SACRIFICE.]
[CHAPTER VIII. PAULINE’S TRIUMPH.]
[CHAPTER IX. ALL FOR LOVE.]
[CHAPTER X. A FACE AT THE WINDOW.]
[CHAPTER XI. “WHAT’S IN A NAME?”]
[CHAPTER XII. A WILL-O’-THE-WISP.]
[CHAPTER XIII. DOCTOR MAY’S PATIENT.]
[CHAPTER XIV. MY LOVE—MY LIFE.]
[CHAPTER XV. A JOYFUL AWAKENING.]
[CHAPTER XVI. GWEN AND PAULINE.]
[CHAPTER XVII. WHAT HOPE CAN DO.]
[CHAPTER XVIII. A HAPPY BRIDE.]
[CHAPTER XIX. THE FIRST CLOUD.]
[CHAPTER XX. LOVED AND LOST.]
[CHAPTER XXI. FEAR.]
[CHAPTER XXII. CONVICTION.]
[CHAPTER XXIII. A PAINFUL SURPRISE.]
[CHAPTER XXIV. A COTTAGE BY THE SEA.]
[CHAPTER XXV. SIR LAWRENCE ACTS.]
[CHAPTER XXVI. A LONG EXPLANATION.]

CHAPTER I.

UNDER THE GREENWOOD-TREE.

“How on earth did you get up there?” And the speaker put his glass in his eye, and coolly surveyed the dainty figure perched on one of the branches of the huge elm, under which he was standing. “That is the last place I expected to find you.”

“I suppose so,” she answered composedly; for Lady Gwendolyn was never flustered or ill at ease under the most trying circumstances. “The fact is, I have had an unpleasant adventure.”

“Indeed; I am very sorry. But hadn’t you better let me help you down before we talk it over; unless you like your quarters so well that you are inclined to stay there, and, in that case, I will join you.”

“Nonsense, Colonel Dacre!” but she laughed, too. “What would Mrs. Grundy say to such an extraordinary tête-à-tête?”

“She would say that it had the merit of novelty; and, considering how tired one is of everything that has happened, and how bored at the thought of prospective repetitions, I consider that any one who strikes out a new line for himself, and refuses to lag along in the old groove, deserves to be canonized.”

“Well, it is very nice when people will be a little original, certainly; but I am not sure that a woman dare get out of the old groove. Moreover, you men like pretty nonentities.”

“The deuce we do!” exclaimed Colonel Dacre. “Who told you that?”

“Nobody. One does not need telling things when one has eyes and ears. I have seen you dance as often as four times in one evening with Mrs. O’Hara.”

“Well?”

“Well,” echoed Lady Gwendolyn, with a superb sort of insolence, “is she clever?”

“No.”

“Refined?”

“No,” answered Colonel Dacre again.

“Or particularly good?”

“I am afraid not.”

“Then what is it that makes her the most popular woman in London?”

“Upon my word, I can’t tell you. I like her because I knew poor O’Hara.”

“And is it so pleasant to talk to her of your dead friend?” insinuated Lady Gwendolyn slyly.

“I never heard her mention her husband’s name in my life.”

“No? Really, you quite astonish me! Then you can’t like her for his sake—you must like her for her own. And I will tell you why, shall I?”

“I am all attention.”

“Well, she flatters you so skilfully that you don’t even know she is doing it, at the same time that you feel infinitely satisfied with yourself. I don’t mean you, individually, Colonel Dacre; but her acquaintances generally.”

“At any rate, no one can accuse you of a like fault, Lady Gwendolyn,” he said, with a faint smile, that showed pain as well as amusement.

“No; I am perfectly downright—too much so, Lady Teignmouth says; but then there is one thing I would scorn to do.”

“What is that?” And there was a certain eagerness in his gray eyes.

“I would scorn to trouble the peace of a happy ménage for the sake of gratifying my poor vanity.”

“And who does this thing?”

“You have a very poor memory, Colonel Dacre. Don’t you remember how well poor foolish Percy Gray got on with his wife, until——”

“Go on,” he urged.

“Well, until Mrs. O’Hara paid them a long visit in town, and then Percy began gradually to discover that Lady Maria was unsympathetic and dull, and could not satisfy a man of intellectual tastes. Perhaps Mrs. O’Hara meant no worse than to make herself agreeable to a convenient acquaintance; but the result was to separate the two.”

“I don’t think you are just, Lady Gwendolyn. What reason have you for laying their domestic differences at Mrs. O’Hara’s door?”

“Lady Maria made no mystery of it.”

“She was jealous of Mrs. O’Hara.”

“Possibly. I fancy I should have been in her place,” and Lady Gwendolyn’s eyes flashed fire. “If I had a husband, I should not exactly care for him to be always dancing attendance on a handsome widow, and making her presents of valuable jewels, especially when he bought these last with my money.”

“Did Lady Maria tell you that, too?”

“Indeed she did, and ‘albeit though not given to the melting mood,’ I cried with her, poor thing! ‘For,’ as she pathetically said, ‘we were so happy together, Percy and I, until Mrs. O’Hara came to stay with us in town, and then she gave him such an exalted idea of himself that I could not please or satisfy him afterward.’”

There was a minute’s silence. Lady Gwendolyn was almost ashamed at the warmth she had shown, lest her motives should be misconstrued; and Colonel Dacre was meditating deeply. At last he looked up and said:

“Why do you tell me all this, Lady Gwendolyn? You are not a spiteful woman naturally, and I know you to be incapable of jealousy. For these reasons I am specially anxious to understand your meaning.”

“Can’t you guess?”

“No; unless you fancy I am in danger from Mrs. O’Hara’s attractions, and need warning.”

“I have been afraid so,” she said; and the wild-rose bloom of her soft cheeks deepened to a rich crimson. “And we have been friends so long, neighbors always, I could not bear to see you throw yourself away on a woman who was so infinitely unworthy of an honest man’s love.”

If Lady Gwendolyn had been near Colonel Dacre she would not have dared to speak so frankly. But her position, if ridiculous, had its advantages, for she was out of the range of his keen glances, and the tremulous leaves had the benefit of her frequent blushes. For over a month now she had been longing to tell him this, but the courage had only come to-day. She was quite obliged to Farmer Bates’ bull for having frightened her up into the tree, and she did not mean to descend just yet.

Colonel Dacre took a long time to digest her warning, but he spoke at last coolly enough.

“Thank you, Lady Gwendolyn; but though I don’t quite agree with you about Mrs. O’Hara, I would sooner shoot myself than marry her. My friend was a noble fellow, and kept his counsel bravely to the end; but there was one thing that would always prevent me from falling in love with his widow.”

“What is that?”

“Because I should not like to stand in a dead man’s shoes, especially his. So, you see, I am safe, although Mrs. O’Hara has the double advantages of being a nonentity and a flatterer. Now will you let me help you down from your perch?”

“Wait just one minute. I want to ask you a very impertinent question first, if I may.”

“I grant you absolution beforehand,” he said, smiling, “on condition that you do not keep me in suspense.”

“I want to know,” she began hesitatingly, “whether if—supposing Mrs. O’Hara had not been your friend’s widow——”

“I should have cared for her?” put in the colonel, to help out her halting speech. “Is that what you mean?”

“Yes; I am so absurdly curious, and I have always wondered if—if——”

Here she came to a full stop in dire confusion, for she had been going to add, “if that is the sort of woman you would care for;” and suddenly perceived that this would not do at all.

“I’ll answer your question when you are on terra firma,” replied Colonel Dacre, dodging to catch a glimpse of the piquant face among the leaves; “this is what I call a conversation under difficulties. By the by, you forgot to tell me why you got up there at all.”

“Bates’ bull put its head over the railing, and looked at my red cloak so viciously I dared not pass him. I had often climbed this tree with Reggie when I was a little girl, and had managed to give Fraulein von Linder the slip; and so I thought I would try it again to-day; but a gown with a train is embarrassing.”

“I expect it is,” he answered, with a droll look in his handsome eyes. “I should be sorry to go about the world crippled by my clothes as you women do.”

“Oh, we don’t mind it, as a rule. One would rather suffer anything, you know, than be quite out of the fashion.”

“Would one, indeed?” he returned, in a tone of grave commiseration. “It seems to me that fashion is the greatest despot the world ever knew; but I am thankful to say it is only women who yield so servilely to its exactions.”

“Of course. One never hears, for instance, of men putting their necks into a vise, and having to turn their heads painfully for fear of accidents to the machinery. Still, if we did hear of such things, we should know it was only done for comfort, and respect them vastly for consulting their own ease before appearances.”

“I can’t argue with a lady so high above me,” retorted Colonel Dacre; and then he added, more seriously: “Indeed, Lady Gwendolyn, you ought to come down. I can see the Handley drag in the distance, and you know Sir Charles would tease your life out of you if he caught you in such a predicament as this.”

“I suppose he would, and therefore I must return to conventional life again. But you have no idea how pleasant it is up here; the air is so pure, and the leaves smell so sweet. I’ll get Teignmouth to arrange me a little place in one of his big trees, à la Robinson, so that I may retire there for contemplation and self-examination occasionally.”

“Or, rather, say to read your billets doux, and keep a close calculation as to the number of hearts you have broken,” said Colonel Dacre, with a sternness in his voice that showed this trifling, butterfly nature—as he believed it to be—angered as well as charmed him. “I fancy that would be nearer the truth.”

Without answering him, Lady Gwendolyn began to work her way slowly along the bough on which she had been seated. She found it a very different performance in cold blood from what it had been under the excitement of fear, and felt herself tremble nervously.

She was terribly incommoded by her dress into the bargain. If Colonel Dacre had not been there she would have gathered her train over her arm, and let her ankles take their chance; but under the circumstances this would not have done, and she had to proceed circumspectly, as became the daughter of a hundred earls.

Knowing nothing of her difficulties, and seeing the Handley drag draw nearer and nearer, Colonel Dacre kept urging her on eagerly. Sir Charles was a great gossip, and it was quite as well he should not have an opportunity of making mischief out of Lady Gwendolyn’s escapade.

“You really must be quick,” he urged; “the horses are turning Borton corner.”

“But don’t you think I should pass unobserved if you were to get away from the tree?” observed Lady Gwendolyn timidly.

“Impossible. Your red cloak must have been a feature in the landscape for some time past. You had better leave it where it is, to account for what they have seen, and if you are very quick, we shall be able to hide ourselves before they get on high ground again.”

“That’s all very well, but——”

“Shall I give you a little help?”

“Not for worlds! I would rather stay here all night.”

“Why?”

“Because I know you are laughing at me in your sleeve. You did not see the bull’s great glaring eyes.”

“If you had made him a present of your cloak he would have been so taken up with his toy that you would have been able to make your escape in a legitimate way.”

“That’s all very well, but I really can’t afford to throw my clothes away in that fashion. I have come down to Teignmouth on purpose to economize, because I exceeded my allowance last year, and my brother had to help me through. Now he is married he has to pay his wife’s debts, and, of course, I am left out in the cold; so I am obliged to be horribly careful, you see. Teignmouth says I ought to make three hundred pounds a year do; but then you men never understand what heaps of things a woman wants.”

“Exactly,” groaned her listener. “A man must have ten thousand pounds nowadays before he can afford the luxury of a wife, and then he’s ruined half the time. But pray look where you are going, Lady Gwendolyn. I am sure that branch on which you are stepping is rotten and unsafe.”

“It bore me before.”

“And, therefore, is less likely to do so again. I can hear it crack now—for mercy’s sake step back!” he shouted, in a frightened tone.

She seemed to enjoy his alarm, and laughed defiantly. She desired nothing better than to make him suffer a little; and she saw, by his anxious face, that he was suffering now—from a nervous dread of witnessing some catastrophe, no doubt. She put her other foot onto the rotten branch. He was watching her with his heart in his eyes; but he saw that his warning had been a mistake, and was silent now, hoping she would try to redeem her error if she were left to herself.

And so she did; but it was too late. The bough gave a loud creak, then broke off suddenly, and Lady Gwendolyn fell in a brilliant heap at Colonel Dacre’s feet.

The red cloak, her pretty summer hat, and her long black hair, were all in such a tangle together that he could not find her face at first, and even when he did he was afraid to look, lest the fatal beauty, which had been the curse of so many, was all spoiled and disfigured. An unholy thought sped through him, that, if it were so, there would be none to dispute with him the treasure he coveted. But he chased this away with contumely.

With a quick but reluctant hand he swept away the shining masses of her hair, and looked at her anxiously. She was as white as a lily; but if there was no more harm done than what he saw, she would break many more hearts yet—his own maybe among the rest.

He bent his lips almost to her ear; inhaling, with passionate delight, the faint perfume that pervaded her dress.

So far it had been a wonderful privilege to hold her hand for a few seconds in his; and now he might have touched her creamy cheek with his lips had he been so minded, and no one would have been the wiser, for the Handley wagonette had gone by, and there was not a living soul in sight.

It was a great temptation, for he had loved this girl secretly, madly, entirely, for two long years, and had suffered tortures of jealousy and hopelessness meanwhile.

If she would only come to herself! He did not think she could be much injured, as she had not fallen from any great height, but still she did not open her eyes, and he was so totally inexperienced in fainting-fits, that her perfect immovability frightened him.

He almost wished now that he had hailed the Handley people as they went by, although he was so jealously glad to have her all to himself. He wondered what he ought to do. He had heard of eau de Cologne being an excellent thing under the circumstance, but then he did not carry it about with him. He put his hand in his pocket mechanically as the idea occurred to him, and came upon his silver hunting-flask. His face brightened at once. He was sure he had also heard of brandy as a remedy, and what a merciful thing he had some by him. He supposed it was to be applied externally, like the eau de Cologne. Going down on his knees beside the insensible figure, he moistened his handkerchief with the spirit, and then bathed Lady Gwendolyn’s forehead and nostrils; and whether it was that brandy so applied really was a good thing, or that the fainting-fits was ending naturally, the girl’s white eyelids began to twinkle, and suddenly she looked up at him with a languidly mysterious smile.

He stooped over her tenderly.

“Are you better, Lady Gwendolyn?”

“Have I been ill, then?” she asked.

“Oh, dear, no!” he answered cheerfully, having always understood that you must keep your patient’s spirits up. “Just a little faintness, that was all. Nothing of the smallest consequence.”

“How do you know that?” she returned. “I believe I have broken my leg.”

“Oh! pray, don’t say that. You only fell from a very short distance, after all, and your feet were not doubled under you, or anything of that sort. You don’t feel any pain, do you?”

Lady Gwendolyn shook her dark, disheveled head in a despondent way.

“That is what I do feel, and I am sure I could not walk home.”

“I never dreamed of your doing such a thing. If you don’t mind waiting here——”

She interrupted him with a cry of dismay.

“So close to Bates’ bull?”

“I beg your pardon,” he said penitently, and then stood pulling at his mustache—a way he had when puzzled or annoyed.

At last he added hesitatingly:

“My house is close here, and if you would not mind my carrying you there, Mrs. Whittaker, the housekeeper, would be able to attend to you until the doctor came. I cannot think of any better plan at this moment; and, of course, I shall not enter the Hall until I have fetched Lady Teignmouth. It is ridiculous to trouble about conventionalities at such a time, Lady Gwendolyn, when the least neglect or delay might cause you to be a cripple for life. Are you not of my opinion?”

“Quite,” she replied, with a strange gleam as of suppressed triumph in her beautiful eyes. “Only that I am afraid you will find that the burden laid upon you is heavier than you can bear.”

“We shall see,” he said, lifting her in his stalwart arms as easily as if she had been a child. “Would you mind putting your arm round my shoulder, just to steady yourself?”

Lady Gwendolyn obeyed him with the simplicity that is always such perfect breeding; and when Colonel Dacre looked down at the creamy cheek resting on his shoulder, and felt the warm coil of her arm round his neck, he could hardly resist the mad temptation to press her against his heart, and tell her again and again how he loved her—so passionately that he would have deemed the world well lost for her sweet sake.

CHAPTER II.

ADIEU.

“Are you not a long time getting to the Hall?” inquired Lady Gwendolyn innocently. “It looked so very near when I was at the top of the tree. I am afraid I must be dreadfully heavy, after all. Do let me try to walk.”

“Not for the world; you might injure yourself for life,” he replied. “I could have hurried a little more, only that I was afraid of shaking you.”

Of course he could. Lady Gwendolyn knew that as well as he did, and smiled to herself. Surely he deserved that she should play with him a little, when for two long years he had kept her in suspense as to the state of his feelings, and had only betrayed them by accident now.

“You carry me beautifully,” she said, with her most gracious air. “You must be wonderfully strong.”

“I used to be; but I have seen my best days, you know.”

“I don’t know. What age are you?” she asked, in her usual downright way.

“Nearly thirty-four.”

“Say thirty-three; there is no need to anticipate. I shall be twenty next week; but I mean to call myself nineteen until twelve o’clock on Monday night. When I reach twenty-five I shall pause there for four or five years, and then go on as slowly as possible, counting every other year, until I am awfully old, and then I sha’n’t mind.”

“Would you really mind now if you were—thirty, say?”

“Yes—I should,” she replied, with great decision.

“Then how dreadfully you must feel for me, Lady Gwendolyn.”

“I don’t think it signifies about a man’s age, unless he is beginning to get infirm. But you have plenty of good years before you yet, Colonel Dacre.”

“I hope you are a true prophet, Lady Gwendolyn. I can assure you that, so far, I have only seen the dark side of life.”

“And yet to outsiders you always seem such a very fortunate person.”

“Do I? Why?”

“You have plenty of money, a fine old property, health to enjoy your advantages; and, therefore, as the world argues, you are an exceedingly fortunate person.”

“Of course, I forgot,” he said bitterly; “money is everything in this world; and yet how little it can buy—of what one values most, I mean.”

“Why, it buys diamonds!” exclaimed Lady Gwendolyn naïvely.

“And you value them more than anything?”

“Well, they are property,” said her ladyship, with a provoking laugh. “I get tired of an ornament so soon; it is nice to know I can dispose of it to advantage, and buy something that pleases me better with the money.”

“Lady Gwendolyn, I give you notice that I don’t believe a word you are saying.”

“No?”

“No, I do not believe you to be so bad as you make yourself out,” he pursued, with indignant emphasis, for he was trying to convince himself as well as to shame her. “But I cannot understand the pleasure of shocking people.”

“Because you are not sensational.”

“Heaven forbid!” he ejaculated fervently.

“Why ‘Heaven forbid?’ There is nothing so delightful. I should die of ennui down here, if it weren’t for an occasional tragedy or surprise.”

“It is to be hoped you won’t have one too many,” he answered gravely.

She lifted her mutinous face from his shoulder to look into his eyes, and then subsided back into her warm shelter, smiling an odd, keen, satisfied little smile, which seemed to say: “You belong to me so thoroughly now that, whatever I may say or do, you cannot break your bonds.”

And, alas! it was only too true. He knew this himself by his undiminished longing to crush her into his arms—to carry her away to some quiet corner of the earth, where she might belong to him undisputed, and satisfy his whole being with the sweetness of her presence. For this he would have resigned gladly all the advantages she had just been enumerating; for this he would have sacrificed everything but his honor, and hope of heaven.

“Well,” she said, after a long pause, “why don’t you talk?”

“I have nothing to say, Lady Gwendolyn, that would be sufficiently tragical, or surprising, either, to amuse you,” he answered, with indulgent irony.

“I am not so sure of that. Do you know what somebody told me once?”

“Somebody must have told you so many things at different times.”

“But I mean about you?”

“I am no Œdipus, Lady Gwendolyn,” he answered; and, though he constrained himself to speak coolly, his lips went white.

“That you have a secret in your life—a skeleton in your cupboard,” she said, in a quick breath, that showed that she was speaking with a purpose, and not out of mere audacity and carelessness. “Is it true?”

He seemed to swallow down a great lump in his throat before he could answer her; and then his voice was strangely hoarse, and unlike his natural tones.

“Do you ask this out of curiosity only, Lady Gwendolyn?”

It was her turn to steady her voice before she responded:

“No—at least, not exactly.”

“Then tell me your motive?”

And, unconsciously, in his eagerness he stooped over her, until his lips touched her hair.

“I—I want to know,” she stammered out.

“That is not a reason.”

“It is the best I can give you.”

“The best you can give me would be the true one.”

“A woman does not like to confess that she is curious,” she said evasively.

“Then it is curiosity?”

“I did not say so.”

“You implied it, Lady Gwendolyn.”

“Don’t you know that speech was given to us to enable us to conceal our thoughts, Colonel Dacre?”

“You are fencing the question. I wish you would be frank with me for once.”

“It is a great mistake to be frank. You only put weapons into your enemies’ hands for them to wound you with.”

“But you are not obliged to be frank with enemies, Lady Gwendolyn.”

“If once people get into the habit, it is very difficult to break it off. Besides, who is to discriminate between friend and foe?”

“I thought a woman’s wonderful instinct always helped her there.”

“Not always. For instance”—saucily—“I have never been able to discover yet whether you like me or not.”

“Then you must be extraordinarily obtuse,” he answered, in the same tone.

“I acknowledged as much just now.”

But at this moment they reached the Hall, in spite of Colonel Dacre’s lingering, and he carried her carefully over the threshold, and placed her on the sofa in a small room, which had once been his mother’s boudoir, and where the pretty things a refined woman likes to collect around her lay about in elegant profusion.

“Now I will go and speak to my housekeeper, and place you in her charge during my absence,” he said; and was moving toward the door, when she put out her hand and detained him.

“Colonel Dacre, will you do me a great favor?”

“A dozen if I had the chance,” he answered, with more vehemence than he was conscious of.

“I don’t want any one to know I am here until you return.”

“Oh, but, Lady Gwendolyn, it is impossible that I should leave you without assistance.”

“Not if I prefer it?” she asked, with her most persuasive accent.

“When people want things that are bad for them we generally serve them, in spite of themselves, by a denial.”

“Yes; but this is not really bad for me. My foot has entirely ceased to pain me, and what I want now is simply rest and quiet. I know Mrs. Whittaker, and she is a terrible gossip. I could not stand her in my best moments; now she would irritate me beyond endurance.”

Seeing him still hesitate, she added, in a decided tone:

“Very well, then, if she comes, or any fuss is made in the house, I will hop home, somehow, Colonel Dacre. There will be an astonishing story abroad to-morrow if Mrs. Whittaker is taken into our confidence——”

“But how is this to be avoided?” he interrupted.

“Very easily indeed. Lady Teignmouth will come to fetch me presently, and how should your servants know that we did not arrive together?”

“You forget that we shall have to account for Doctor Thurlow’s sudden visit.”

“I don’t see any need for that. You are not surely bound to keep your servants au courant as to all your movements.”

“That is about the last thing I should think of as a rule. I trouble myself very little about what they think; but I am naturally sensitive for you, Lady Gwendolyn.”

“If that is the case, you must see that my proposition is a good one. The servants are less likely to talk if they have nothing to talk about.”

“You don’t do justice to their inventive faculties, Lady Gwendolyn.”

“I don’t profess to understand them much,” she answered, with the hauteur of a true patrician. “I always hear that they are very unsatisfactory people; but I am sufficiently fortunate, I suppose, for I don’t often change my maids.”

“And I never change mine,” he said, laughing. “I always find the same faces here when I return from my travels. But are you quite determined to banish Mrs. Whittaker, Lady Gwendolyn?”

“Entirely. I infinitely prefer to be alone; and as I am free from pain, and perfectly composed, I really don’t see what I could do with her if she were here, except listen to your praises.”

“And that would be too trying.”

“I never said so; but, as you advocate frankness, I will admit that I would rather the pleasure were postponed.”

“Sine die, I suppose?”

“Colonel Dacre, you are too spiteful! I won’t listen to you any longer.”

And she turned her face to the wall, with a resolute air.

He went down on one knee, and said in a tragical tone:

“I cannot depart without your forgiveness. There is a deep pit on the Teignmouth Road, and, blinded by despair, I should be sure to fall into it! There is also a swift river beyond. You will not, surely, send me forth to certain destruction?”

She gave him her hand, and his lips fastened on it eagerly, passionately. She kept her face averted still, but she did not chide him, and a faint tremor went through her whole frame. Then slowly she turned her head, and, looking him straight in the eyes, said softly:

“You have not told me your secret yet.”

He sprang to his feet abruptly, as if he had been stung.

“Who told you I had a secret?” he asked, in a stifled voice.

“Some one.”

“Is it impossible that ‘some one’ should lie?”

“Tell me it is so, and I will believe you.”

Dead silence.

“Do you hear me, Colonel Dacre?”

“Yes, I hear you, Lady Gwendolyn.”

“Then answer something,” she added, in an impatient tone.

Again he was mute.

She snatched her hand away from him, and turned her face to the wall once more.

“I understand you, Colonel Dacre. You have a secret, and one you would be ashamed to tell me.”

“Is that a necessary inference?” he inquired, in a low, constrained voice.

“I think so.”

“Perhaps you are too prejudiced to be just.”

“I don’t know why I should be. You and I were always good friends, in the social sense of the term. For instance, you always asked me for two or three dances when we met at a ball, and sometimes you even took me down to supper. I have even known you to shelter me from the sun by holding my parasol at a garden-party; and once you so far sacrificed yourself as to play croquet at my desire. After that I never allowed myself to doubt your devotion, I assure you; and I am surprised you should think I could be prejudiced against you.”

“Can you never be serious?” he said painfully.

“I am serious now.”

“I should be sorry to think so.”

“Why? I have not said anything bad, have I?”

“No; but if your seriousness is so much like jest, how is one ever to know which you mean it to be?”

“You must wait for circumstances to enlighten you.”

“How long?”

“That depends upon—circumstances.”

“You are very enigmatical, Lady Gwendolyn, and, as I said before, I am no Œdipus.”

“Then you give me up?” she said, laughing.

“As a riddle, yes. There never was a man yet who could fathom a woman, from Adam downward.”

“It was never intended that you should, evidently, or Eve would not have been allowed to set such a precedent. Weakness is often obliged to seem like duplicity in self-defense.”

“Do you call yourself weak? Physical strength is not the greatest, after all, or Una would never have tamed the lion.”

“If you lapse into allegory, I am undone,” she said gaily. “I am no ‘scholar,’ as the poor people say. What little my governesses managed to teach me I have forgotten long ago.”

“And yet, I heard you translate a Latin epigram very creditably the other day.”

“Nonsense! Colonel Dacre. Your ears deceived you. I should have been so exhausted mentally by the effort that I should not have been able to frame an intelligible sentence for at least a year afterward, and you see I am quite rational to-day.”

He rose with an impatient, weary air. It seemed as if she were such an incorrigible trifler, and had so thoroughly accustomed herself to look on the ridiculous side of everything, that now she could not be serious even if she wished.

And yet she was so lovely; and what better excuse did a man ever need for such folly?

“‘If to her share a thousand errors fall,

Look in her face and you forget them all,’”

the colonel muttered to himself, rather grimly, as he furtively examined the delicate profile which was just sufficiently out of the straight Greek line to give it more piquancy without losing the grace of the model.

Though she was somewhat above the middle height, she might have worn Cinderella’s glass slipper with ease, and her hand was so small, and soft, and plump, it seemed to melt in your grasp.

Altogether, she was the only woman yet who had ever entirely satisfied him. Others had charmed him for a time, but he had never learned to love them because somehow they had always managed to disenchant him before he reached that point. But he had only to see Lady Gwendolyn to tumble headlong, foolishly in love; and though he had been struggling to get out of bondage ever since, each month seemed to strengthen his chains.

Now he had surrendered at discretion, and felt himself at the mercy of this black-browed witch of a woman, who seemed to think it a pleasant pastime to break the hearts of those who loved her.

Having almost reached the door, he came back to say wistfully:

“Do you forgive me for disobeying you, Lady Gwendolyn?”

“No,” she answered shortly and sternly; for she was given to these Protean changes of mood. “You have not told me your secret.”

“Why will you harp upon that miserable subject? I do not question you upon your past.”

“You have no right,” she said haughtily.

A sudden glow crept into his face; his eyes shone with triumph.

“You think that you have a right to know mine, then, Lady Gwendolyn?”

She saw then what inference she had favored, and grew crimson to the very roots of her hair under his searching, impassioned gaze. Amazed at her own embarrassment, she answered petulantly:

“I wish you would let me rest, Colonel Dacre. I might as well have had Mrs. Whittaker if you were going to gossip like this.”

“I beg your pardon,” he answered, with a formal bow; “I forget that I might be boring you. What message shall I give Lady Teignmouth from you?”

“None whatever, thank you. Say what you think fit. She is sure to be shocked, anyhow, for she is the most unmitigated prude I ever knew; but she will recover herself in time, I dare say. Will you kindly hand me a book before you go?”

He chose one that he thought would interest her, placed it on a little table beside her sofa, with very evident pleasure in the service, and then, remembering Lot’s wife, he left the room without once looking back.

Lord Teignmouth’s park adjoined his, and he had not far to go; but, on reaching the house, he heard, to his dismay, that his lordship and wife had driven out together to make some calls, and were not expected home until six o’clock.

Of course he could not confide his errand to the butler, and, therefore, he simply said that he would call again later, and took his way toward the village. But, as luck would have it, Doctor Thurlow was also absent, having been sent for a few minutes before he arrived; and, as his patient lived nearly eight miles off, there was not much chance of his being back for an hour and a half, at least.

Colonel Dacre began to think that everything was conspiring to drive him crazy. He might reasonably have counted upon taking back one of the three people he had gone to fetch, and so setting Lady Gwendolyn right with the world, supposing her adventure got wind; and not knowing what to do now, he decided to walk back to the Hall as quickly as possible, and hear what his guest wished done.

He began to see now that it was a mistake to have taken her there at all. If he had only carried her into Bates’ house, nothing could possibly have been said—only that people always think of these brilliant expedients when it is too late to carry them into effect, and as it had not suggested itself to Lady Gwendolyn she could hardly blame him for his forgetfulness.

He had left the door ajar, and stole into the house unperceived. Perhaps in his heart of hearts he was not sorry that he should have another tête-à-tête with Lady Gwendolyn, though he would not have confessed as much even to himself, so anxious was he to be honorable even in thought.

The door of the little boudoir where he had left her was shut fast, and he knocked softly thrice without receiving any answer. At last, fancying that the girl must have fallen asleep, he opened it with a certain hesitation and peered in, naturally glancing first toward the sofa, where he had seen her last, reclining helplessly back among the cushions.

She was not there.

Somewhat alarmed now, he walked boldly in, and searched even behind the curtains, thinking, perhaps, her ladyship was coquetting with his fears, and enjoying his discomfiture from her hiding-place. But she was not there, or anywhere, so far as he could perceive, and he paused in great perplexity. Had the Teignmouths chanced to call while he was away, and carried her off?

This seemed the most feasible solution of the mystery, considering the state she was in, and he was about to adopt it, when he suddenly caught sight of a little three-cornered note lying on the table which he had placed beside Lady Gwendolyn’s couch.

It was addressed to “Colonel Dacre,” and, tearing it open eagerly, he read the following words, whose expressiveness was only equaled by their laconicism:

“I have found out your secret at last. Adieu.”

CHAPTER III.

A RUSE DE GUERRE.

Colonel Dacre stood quite still for several minutes, holding Lady Gwendolyn’s letter in his hand, and so completely stunned by the misfortune that had come upon him, he could scarcely realize its magnitude as yet. Had Lady Gwendolyn’s accident been a mere pretense and blind? And, if so, had she any excuse for her deception?

These were the two questions he put to himself the moment he could reason. There was only one thing that could have justified such a course of action on Lady Gwendolyn’s part; and if she had had this motive, he was ready to forgive her. He would not judge her, then, until they had met and he had interrogated her, when, even if her tongue labored to deceive him still, he should know the truth by her eyes.

But he could not present himself at the Castle a second time that day, and he might have betrayed Lady Gwendolyn by so doing; as there was just the chance that she had been able to get home without Lord and Lady Teignmouth knowing anything about her little adventure.

He must wait, therefore, until the morrow for a solution of the double mystery, trying as the suspense was.

Before the household was astir he got up, plunged into a cold bath to freshen himself a little, and then went out into the lanes, which he paced up and down until breakfast-time.

The meal was a farce—he was much too excited to eat; but he thought it necessary to sit down to table, and help himself from one of the savory little dishes which the butler forced upon his notice. He did not care to set them gossiping in the servants’ hall; and Graham had already remarked, with the freedom of an old retainer, that “he feared his master must have had a bad night, since he had risen so much earlier than usual.”

To wait until the afternoon was beyond Colonel Dacre’s courage; and as he and Lord Teignmouth had been at Eton together as boys, he thought he might venture to make a morning call for once in a way. So he ordered his horse at a quarter to twelve, and got through the interval as best he could.

Lord Teignmouth was at home, and received him cordially in the library. He was a hearty, pleasant-mannered man, who managed to enjoy life vastly, although the countess was not reckoned, in the neighborhood, to be a very satisfactory wife. But, if frivolous and vain, her ladyship was sweet-tempered, and accorded as much liberty to her husband as she took herself; so that they kept on excellent terms—all the better, perhaps, that they were so seldom together.

It was purely an accident that they were both at the Castle now, as her ladyship had an engagement elsewhere; but a slight feverish attack had brought her down to Teignmouth for rest and fresh air, and she was as much charmed as surprised when she found her husband and sister-in-law ruralizing, also.

“It is so seldom one can manage to be quite en famille,” she said affably; “the world is such a tyrant, it is always claiming one. I am horribly tired of gaiety, but one must do as others do, you know.”

And when the earl laughed, as he always did at his wife’s logic, she opened her large blue eyes, and added innocently:

“Well, but mustn’t one, dear?”

Colonel Dacre asked after the countess’ health with great apparent solicitude, as he shook hands with his host, and was, of course, delighted to hear that she had entirely recovered from her recent indisposition. Then he added, with assumed nonchalance:

“I trust Lady Gwendolyn is equally well.”

“Oh! that’s where the land lies, is it?” thought the earl. But aloud he said, with a certain twinkle of the eye:

“I trust she is, too; but I haven’t seen her since last night.”

“No?” put in the colonel, waiting eagerly for further information.

“The fact is,” Lord Teignmouth went on, in a confidential tone, “girls are never of the same mind two days together. Yesterday morning Gwen was enchanted with Teignmouth, and declared she would give up all her engagements and stay here for the autumn; in the evening, at dinner, she suddenly announced that she was bored to death, and should leave by the first train in the morning.”

“And this morning she changed her mind for the third time, I presume?”

“Not a bit of it! I thought she would, of course, and quite expected to see her at breakfast; but when, on her not presenting herself, I made inquiries, I found that she had left Teignmouth by the first train.”

Colonel Dacre felt himself turn pale, but managed to say, with tolerable composure:

“I am sorry for that, as she was kind enough to lend me a book the other day, and I have not had the opportunity of returning it. But perhaps you will kindly give me her address, and then I can send it by post.”

“Her address. Let me see,” said the earl, with provoking deliberation. “I know it is somewhere in the North.”

“I am afraid that is rather vague.”

“I am afraid it is,” he answered, with his frank laugh. “But I have such a confoundedly bad memory. Pauline would remember, I dare say. She is generally my prompter. Supposing you go and ask her yourself?”

“Are you sure I should not be intruding on Lady Teignmouth?” inquired Colonel Dacre, whose eyes had suddenly brightened at the proposition.

“On the contrary, I am certain her ladyship will be delighted to see you.”

Lady Teignmouth was reclining on a lounge by the open window as Colonel Dacre entered, and her very attitude showed how thoroughly bored she was; but at the sound of his name she turned, with evident relief, and held out her hand.

“How very kind of you to take compassion on a poor recluse!” she said gaily. “I am literally dying of ennui! I do hope you have brought me some news.”

“On the contrary, I have come here for news,” he answered, seating himself in the chair her ladyship pointed out.

“Then you have been taken in, I am afraid. Nothing new ever happens at Teignmouth.”

“I don’t know about that,” he said, his voice trembling a little; “Lady Gwendolyn’s sudden departure is something new.”

“I am so accustomed to these strange caprices of hers, they never seem new to me,” replied Lady Teignmouth, hardening a little. “It is a great misfortune when a mere girl has such a horror of anything like control. I am going away to-morrow myself, and she might as well have waited and traveled with me as far as town, but she would not listen to my proposition. She preferred to be quite free, she said; and so she is gone off, goodness knows where, in spite of everything I could say.”

“Lord Teignmouth told me she had left you her address,” hazarded the colonel timidly.

The countess gave him a sudden, keen look right in the eyes, and then shook her head.

“You know poor dear Reginald always does make blunders, Colonel Dacre. Gwen said something about letting us know shortly where she was to be found, but I think it was only a parting civility to which it would not do to attach much importance.”

“But what motive could she have for concealing her whereabouts?”

“I never profess to understand Gwen’s motives for anything, Colonel Dacre; nor do I, as a rule, interfere in her plans. The best thing that could happen to her would be to get a husband who would keep her in order, for what little authority Teignmouth might have as her guardian he never exercises, so that she is getting more and more lawless every day.”

“Lady Gwendolyn may consider that she is justified in pleasing herself so long as Lord Teignmouth does not remonstrate; he is the only person who has a right to take this tone with her as yet.”

“Oh! I never interfere, if that is what you mean,” responded her ladyship, smiling that sweet, stereotyped smile of hers which imposed upon so many. “I have no right, as you say.”

Colonel Dacre had not said exactly this, but he let it pass, and observed, after a pause:

“Then you cannot give me any idea where Lady Gwendolyn is to be found?”

“Not the faintest. But she may write in a day or two, and then I will let you know, if you like.”

“Thank you very much,” he said; and then he added, with assumed carelessness: “She was quite well, I hope, when she went away?”

“Perfectly,” answered Lady Teignmouth, opening her eyes very wide, as if she were surprised at the question.

“She did not complain of her foot at all?”

“Why should she?”

“Oh! I thought she might possibly have sprained her ankle,” he said evasively. “She walked so much more here than she is accustomed to do.”

“She pleased herself; there was a carriage always at her disposal. You ought to know, Colonel Dacre, that my husband is absurdly weak, so far as Gwen is concerned, and would try to get her a slice of the moon if she wanted one.”

“It is a very amiable weakness,” said the colonel, smiling.

“But not always a convenient one for his wife.”

Colonel Dacre began to understand the countess better now. She was jealous of her beautiful sister-in-law. She never made the faintest effort to retain her husband’s affection; still she did not want him to care for anybody else, and was never so near losing her temper as when anything reminded her of the good understanding that existed between the brother and sister.

Then, again, although a pretty woman, the countess was quite eclipsed by Lady Gwendolyn, which was another reason why she should not regard her with much favor. However, she did not care for an outsider to know exactly the terms they were on, for she added, in an indulgent tone:

“I dare say it is very natural, after all. There are only two of them left now, and their mother left Gwen in Reginald’s charge, so that he looks upon her as a sacred legacy. Only, of course, she is but young, and it would be better if he looked after her a little more, would it not?”

“Perhaps it would,” he admitted. “But it is just possible Lady Gwendolyn would not submit to be dictated to.”

“In that case she ought to marry, and take the responsibility off our shoulders, Colonel Dacre,” replied the countess, with more decision than she usually infused into her company manner. “I am sure you would hardly believe how worried I was by her numerous flirtations last season.”

“I should have fancied there was safety in numbers,” remarked her listener dryly.

“For her, perhaps; but I am afraid it only made it more dangerous for them. If this were a dueling age, Gwen would have a good many on her conscience, I fancy.”

“But, you see, men do not always care to risk their lives for a woman whom they know is trifling with them,” said Colonel Dacre slowly.

“Well, you speak very philosophically of love, as if it were a light feeling that helped you through a few idle hours, but was not likely to take any deeper hold.”

“You quite misunderstand me, I assure you. I think love a terrible thing, and pity those who fall into it, with all my heart.”

“While taking warning by their example,” insinuated Lady Teignmouth, smiling.

A quick flush passed over the colonel’s face. The significance of her manner made him tremble for his secret, which he feared was in very unsafe keeping. He hastened to deny the “soft impeachment” in self-defense.

“Exactly. As a mere looker-on I can judge the question dispassionately, which would not be the case, supposing my feelings were implicated.”

This time her ladyship laughed outright. She evidently thought his logic rather defective. Then, becoming suddenly grave, she said:

“If love is a terrible thing under ordinary circumstances, what must it be under extraordinary circumstances?”

“What do you mean by extraordinary circumstances?”

“Well, if you cared for a coquette—we will say?”

“I hope I never should, Lady Teignmouth.”

“I hope not, too, for your own sake. And, unfortunately, I have seen so many poor moths consumed in a certain flame that I tremble now for every one that approaches. The only chance, so far as my experience goes, is to keep out of the way.”

“On the principle that ‘prevention is better than cure,’” he answered lightly. “I agree with your ladyship there, up to a certain point; still, if one were always on the lookout for painful possibilities, life would not be worth living, would it?”

The countess yawned demonstratively.

“Is it now, do you think?”

“Yes,” he answered, with decision. “I find it so.”

“You really surprise me;” and she leaned back on her couch with an air of extreme languor. “Do you know, Colonel Dacre, I often wonder what some people are made of—nothing seems to trouble them.”

“Possibly those are just the people who feel things the most. Real suffering is generally quiet.”

She turned on him abruptly.

“Is that why you are so quiet now?”

“I cannot think why your ladyship will persist in attributing to me a secret sorrow or passion,” he retorted. “Do I look very Byronic?”

“No,” she answered readily; “but you see I have got quite into the way of looking upon every man I have seen with Gwen as one of her victims, and you have been very often with her of late.”

“So have half a dozen others. I suppose they were my companions in misfortune?”

“Don’t jest upon such a serious subject,” she said, with her malicious smile.

“Anyhow,” he observed, rising, “however hard hit I may be, I shall know it is not of any use appealing to your ladyship for sympathy—Lady Gwendolyn’s ‘victims’ seem to make excellent sport for you?”

“When they don’t bore me. You know it is too much to expect one woman to sit and listen to another’s praises for two or three hours together. That is occasionally my fate; and I must frankly confess that I dislike it extremely. If I were to show the least sign of weariness, I should be looked upon as a monster, for every one ought to enjoy the capitulation of Gwen’s marvelous perfections. Do you know I sometimes quite wish I were her mother; I suppose I should like all this vastly then, especially if they had the tact to refer now and then to my past triumphs, and insinuate that my daughter was just what I must have been at her age. But—you are surely going to stay to luncheon, Colonel Dacre? My husband won’t forgive me if I don’t keep you, and I am sure you would not like to be the cause of our first conjugal difference, would you?”

“Nothing would distress me more; but Lord Teignmouth is too just to lay my fault at your door.”

“But, really, Colonel Dacre, you must stay. A man without home-ties has no excuse for refusing an invitation of any sort. I look upon bachelors as public property myself. Come,” she added persuasively, “I will make a bargain with you. Stop and lunch with us, and I will tell where I think it probable you may find Lady Gwendolyn—supposing you really wish to see her?”

“Would your ladyship mind telling me why you so particularly want me to stay?” said the colonel; led by the countess’ manner to suspect some trick.

“Certainly; we are quite alone to-day, and I have private reasons of my own for avoiding a tête-à-tête with my husband. Are you satisfied with my explanation?”

Colonel Dacre bowed silently. He was not satisfied, by any means, but it was rather difficult to say so.

“Then you will stay?” added Lady Teignmouth, after a minute’s silence.

“With pleasure.”

A smile, so full of malicious triumph, shone in the countess’ eyes, that if Colonel Dacre had only seen it before, it would have served as a warning to him. But having accepted, he could not retract now, although he was more than ever persuaded that the countess was playing him a trick.

This idea was confirmed when, just as he was pocketing the card on which his companion had written the address he wanted, the Handley drag drove up to the door, and emptied its living freight into the hall, which swept on up the wide staircase, laughing and talking. But Lady Teignmouth was equal to the occasion. She looked straight at her guest, without so much as a blush on her cool, pink cheek.

“It is the Handley party come to luncheon—how very kind of them. No fear of a matrimonial tête-à-tête now.”

“Then I am not wanted any longer, Lady Teignmouth?”

“On the contrary, you are wanted more than ever. You know how difficult Clara Handley is to amuse.”

“I am afraid I can’t be facetious to order, Lady Teignmouth.”

“You can pay compliments, and that is all Clara cares about,” responded the countess, who had by no means a high opinion of her own sex. Then she went forward to greet the young lady herself with great affection, kissing her on both cheeks, and congratulating her upon the effect of her new hat, leaving the colonel quite bewildered and pained in his heart, for he had always had a chivalrous respect for women, and it grieved him to know that even one could be so false.

He had to take Clara Handley into luncheon, and exerted himself to be agreeable, but his thoughts were elsewhere, and he was glad when the meal was over. When the whole party adjourned to the grounds to play lawn-tennis, he shook hands with Lord Teignmouth, and slipped quietly away.

He was just congratulating himself upon having paid Lady Teignmouth a little trick as anticipative vengeance for the one he suspected her of having planned for him, when he suddenly found himself face to face with the countess herself.

“I just ran away for a minute from the others to wish you good-by, and bon voyage,” she said, her whole face in a glitter of malicious delight. “I am sure you will enjoy yourself up there, the country is so picturesque. Give my love to Gwen, and tell her that directly she is tired of solitude, I shall be happy to chaperon her anywhere.”

Shaking himself to get rid of the disagreeable impression her ladyship had left behind, Colonel Dacre rode rapidly toward home, and scarcely felt safe from Lady Teignmouth’s shafts until he found himself once more in the library of Borton Hall.

CHAPTER IV.

TUROY GRANGE.

The address Lady Teignmouth had given Colonel Dacre was Turoy Grange, near Westhampton, Yorkshire; and after looking out for Westhampton on the map, and settling the route he ought to take, he rang the bell, and told the butler to pack his traveling-bag and order the carriage for the four-o’clock train.

“I sha’n’t be gone more than three or four days,” added the colonel, seeing the other looked surprised. “You may confidently expect me by Saturday at the latest.”

It was to be hoped Graham did not take his master quite at his word, for a great many Saturdays would come and go before Colonel Dacre would cross his own threshold again.

Indeed, he little suspected what this journey was to bring forth, or he would have counter-ordered his dog-cart assuredly, tossed Lady Teignmouth’s card into the waste-basket, and made up his mind to await calmly the issue of events, and abide by the result.

However, four o’clock saw the “gallant colonel”—as the local newspaper always designated him—stepping into a first-class carriage at Borton Station, bound for “fair London town,” en route for Turoy Grange, near Westhampton, Yorkshire.

He remembered as he went along that he had often heard Lady Gwendolyn speak, half jestingly, of her “mansion” at Turoy, and declare it to be such a “ghostly place that only a person with a very clear conscience could venture to stay there even for a night.”

She and Lord Teignmouth had often spent their holidays there when children; but then their mother was alive, and the place had been made bright for their occupation.

The last four years it had been seldom inhabited, although it was one of Lady Gwendolyn’s caprices to have it kept in perfect order and repair, that it might be available, supposing she cared to run down there at any time.

An old nurse of hers, with her husband, lived in the house—that Colonel Dacre also remembered to have heard; and had been pleased at Lady Gwendolyn’s thoughtful provision for one who had been good to her when she was a child. But from the description given him of Turoy it was the last place for a spoiled beauty to take refuge in, unless she had some reason at the moment to feel disgusted with the world and her friends, and needed a spell of solitude to get her into a better mood.

“If I could believe that she had run away to Turoy on my account I should be the happiest man alive,” Colonel Dacre said to himself, with a wild thrill, for it seemed to him that this would be sure proof that he was not indifferent to her. “Otherwise, what could there be in my secret to pain and annoy her?”

And then he set himself to work out the problem how she could have found anything in his mother’s boudoir to enlighten her on this point. He had not solved it to his satisfaction when the train whistled its way into London, and he was obliged to attend to the more practical details of his journey. He found, on consulting the time-table, that there was no train which stopped at Westhampton until the morning express, and, therefore, he decided to go to a hotel, and get a few hours’ rest.

He was not naturally vain, but it did strike him that he should gain in the end by this delay, as a battered-looking, travel-stained, wobegone man would not make his appearance on the Turoy scene with much effect. And he could not afford to dispense with a single advantage in the contest before him, for he knew the adversary he had to deal with, and that if once he gave Lady Gwendolyn the chance of making a jest at his expense he was undone.

She was one of those women who would forgive a lover for having committed a crime, but would never pardon him if he made himself ridiculous. So that Colonel Dacre gave himself seven good hours’ sleep, and started the next morning in excellent health and spirits.

The journey was a long one, but with hope for a companion time passes so quickly, and whenever he was beginning to grow weary he refreshed himself by picturing Lady Gwendolyn’s blush and smile, her well-feigned surprise, her delicious embarrassment, her mutinous grace, as she welcomed him to her “mansion.”

The train only stopped at a few of the largest stations; but at Preston there was a halt of ten minutes, and he went to get himself a biscuit and a glass of sherry. As he returned to the platform to regain his carriage, he ran up against a lady whose figure struck him as familiar.

Nothing could be simpler than this lady’s dress, and yet it was worn with an elegance that suggested strange possibilities to his mind, and made him follow the owner curiously. She seemed startled and annoyed by his scrutiny, although the thick Shetland veil she was wearing not only concealed, but distorted her features so much that it was impossible to recognize her, supposing even she had been the person he had come northward to seek.

But his suspicions had never taken that direction for a moment. This lady was taller than Lady Gwendolyn by at least a couple of inches, and there was a sort of insolence in her bearing which Colonel Dacre seemed to know only too well.

In spite of himself, he thought of Lady Teignmouth, and, wondering what mischief was hidden under this disguise, kept close to her heels. She quickened her pace, and presently, to his surprise, jumped into a third-class carriage.

A common man in the corner moved forward to make room for her, and evidently recognized her superiority, for he said, almost respectfully:

“Won’t you come here, miss? you’ll find it more comfortable.”

“Thank you, zir, I am sure,” answered the other, with an abominable accent. “Although, for the matter of that, bad’s the best.”

Colonel Dacre waited to hear no more. He was quite satisfied now that the young person in the Shetland veil was some lady’s-maid, who had learned to copy her mistress successfully enough to deceive an outsider, until she opened her mouth. Then there could be no doubt about her social status whatever; and it quite amused him to picture Lady Teignmouth’s horror, supposing she had been told that he had taken a third-class passenger, with a northern burr, for her aristocratic self.

The rest of the journey passed without further incident.

On getting down at Westhampton, Colonel Dacre found himself looking out rather curiously for the heroine of his little adventure at Preston; but she was not there, nor in the third-class carriage where he had seen her last, so that either she had changed her seat, or had got down at one of the intermediate stations.

“Anyhow, it doesn’t matter to me,” he said to himself. “I have had abundant proof that it is not Lady Teignmouth, and that was all I wanted to know.”

There was one rickety fly waiting outside the station, and Colonel Dacre engaged it at once, and told the man to drive direct to Turoy Grange. It was only four miles off, but the roads were so bad, the country so hilly, and the poor horse so groggy, that it was an hour and a half before they came in sight of Turoy, a little cluster of cottages, with a small, gray church tower rising out of their midst.

Another steep ascent brought them into the village; they stopped in front of a low, old-fashioned house.

“This is the Grange, zurr,” said the coachman; and Colonel Dacre jumped out gladly.

Then he rang the bell, and as he heard it echo through the silent house, a sudden nervous fear seized him lest he should have done ill in coming.

Lady Gwendolyn was so peculiar that the thing which would have helped him with another woman might ruin him with her. Nobody answered his first summons, nor his second; but when he rang a third time he heard a step along the hall, and the door opened at last—slowly and reluctantly.

A respectable-looking middle-aged woman presented herself, and evidently regarded Colonel Dacre with great disfavor.

“What may you be pleased to want?” she asked, with cold civility.

“I want to see Lady Gwendolyn St. Maur.”

“She isn’t at home,” replied the woman, and she was about to shut the door again in his face.

But he was prepared for this movement, and had inserted his knee in the aperture, that he might have time for parley.

“I suppose she is staying at Turoy? Lady Teignmouth gave me this address.”

But even the countess’ name and authority could not soften the woman, who seemed to take her post as door-keeper much too strictly, unless she had received stringent orders.

“Whether she is or she isn’t staying at Turoy, she isn’t in this house now,” was the reply, spoken with great determination.

“Perhaps she has gone out for a walk?” the colonel observed, trying an indirect question.

“Perhaps she has.”

“In that case, I think I had better call again later, don’t you?”

“Just as you like; it’s no affair of mine.”

Colonel Dacre’s temper was naturally good, but it began to fail him a little now.

“I should have fancied you were left in the house on purpose to give information,” he said. “Anyhow, you might as well give a civil answer to a civil question. I am sure Lady Gwendolyn would not consider that you served her interests by being rude to her visitors.”

“Her ladyship knows too well about me for anything people might say to trouble her,” answered the woman quietly. “I do my duty, so far as I know how; and I can’t help the rest. If her ladyship came down here it is because she wants rest and quiet; but, of course, if she told me to let in a whole regiment I should obey her.”

“Then she has told you not to admit any one?”

“I never said so, sir.”

“At any rate, I shall return in a couple of hours,” responded Colonel Dacre, irritated almost beyond endurance, and he turned on his heel and marched briskly away.

He looked back when he reached the gate, and caught just one glimpse of a graceful dark head at one of the windows; but it was withdrawn before he had time to identify it. And he went on his way, wondering if Lady Gwendolyn was as false as her sister-in-law, or if she was one of those women who love to torture those in their power.

He adjourned to the village inn, and ordered a bottle of wine, simply for the sake of getting into conversation with the landlord, who seemed much gratified when he was told to bring a second glass and help himself. The sherry was potent, and loosened mine host’s tongue.

What sort of a neighborhood was it? Why, as poor as poor could be. He never got any genteel custom from week’s end to week’s end, and that was very trying to a man who had lived in good families before he took up with the public line, and liked to keep in his own set.

“I suppose you don’t supply the Grange, then?” said Colonel Dacre, looking as innocent as a dove.

“Bless you, sir, there’s no supplying as far as the Grange goes. The lady it belongs to doesn’t come to Turoy more than once a year, and then she is a teetotaller.”

“That is very unfortunate,” returned Colonel Dacre sympathetically. “I suppose she isn’t here now?”

“That I can’t tell you, sir. Her coming or going doesn’t make much difference to me, although some people are delighted enough.”

“Perhaps she is good to the poor?”

“Well, I believe she is that,” he admitted. “But I am afraid you don’t like the wine, sir. You see, having so little trade in that way, I can’t afford to keep much of a stock.”

“Oh, no; you are quite right,” answered the colonel. “Have you a decent bed for me, supposing I decide to remain at Turoy to-night?”

“The best in the world, sir; I’ll answer for that,” responded mine host. “And I shall be proud of your patronage and recommendation.”

Colonel Dacre strolled out into the village to pass away the time, and it was growing dusk when he presented himself once more at Lady Gwendolyn’s door. This time it was answered by a stalwart, weather-beaten man of about fifty, who, in reply to his question, said, civilly, that her ladyship was not at home.

“Could I see her if I called in the morning?” pursued the colonel.

“I doubt if she’ll be at home then; but, of course, you must do as you like about the calling.”

“The fact is, I want to see Lady Gwendolyn upon particular business,” added Colonel Dacre impressively. “I am sure she would not refuse to receive me if she knew this, and I should be really obliged if you would mention it to her. Or would it be better if I wrote a line, and explained matters myself?”

“I should almost think it would, sir.”

“Yes, but is she sure to get my letter?”

“I don’t fancy anybody would steal it, sir,” replied the man shortly.

“I didn’t mean that, of course; but if she is not here it could be forwarded, I suppose?”

“There would be no difficulty about that.”

Colonel Dacre tried to slip a sovereign into his hand, but the man was evidently obtuse, for he let it drop, and seemed quite surprised when he heard it ring on the stone floor.

“You are losing your money, sir,” he said; and, having picked it up, he handed it back with such a virtuously reproachful air that Colonel Dacre dared not so much as hint that it was for him, and restored it to his pocket in rather a crestfallen way.

He went back to the inn to secure his bed, and then he returned to the charge. Seating himself on a bank just outside the gate of the Grange, he watched the house and garden both.

Half an hour passed without incident. The evening began to darken perceptibly, and he saw a light in one of the lower windows, and the outline of the female dragon’s head, but she was evidently a discreet woman, for she quickly drew down the blind, and raised it no more.

But though it must have been quite dark indoors by this time, there was no other sign of the house being inhabited.

He was beginning to think that he had come on a wild-goose chase, and that Lady Gwendolyn might be at the other end of England, after all, when suddenly his heart began to tremble and his pulses to quicken. He had caught sight of a white figure standing in the porch, and fancied he knew that this was Lady Gwendolyn.

She stepped daintily out from under a trellis-work of roses and clematis, and looked from side to side, as if she were in search of some one.

“Does she regret her cruelty just now?” he asked himself, his breath coming short and fast from an intense eagerness of expectancy, while the wild longing within him almost frightened him, as a sign of the terrible empire this passion was gaining.

It might be so, for she glided forward to the gate like a spirit; and, standing there, looked down the road with something wistful in her attitude, as it seemed to him. He had almost decided to step forward and accost her, when she drew back suddenly, as if something had frightened her, and turned down a little path with shrubs on either side.

He had not seen her face distinctly, for she had a white shawl over her head, and was holding it close under her chin to protect her from the night air; but he could have no doubt that this was Lady Gwendolyn.

He got up and followed.

He saw her walking slowly, and looking about her with the expectant air he had noticed at first; then suddenly she paused, a dark figure stepped out of the shadow of the trees, and Colonel Dacre, with a jealous thrill, saw Lady Gwendolyn’s creamy fingers pressed fervently against the newcomer’s black mustache.

How he restrained himself from rushing forward and confronting the pair he never knew. At this moment he felt like a murderer, and thirsted for the blood of this rival, whom Lady Gwendolyn preferred to himself.

She had carried her coquetry cruelly far, for she had won his whole heart, and had left him only just sense enough to suffer and regret.

So false and yet so fair. Oh! why had he not been warned in time? He could have given her up easily in the first days. Now, although he knew all her perfidy, and believed her to have neither conscience nor feeling, he could not drag his love up by the roots, although it must needs be his sorrow and shame. When she passed her arm through the man’s, with a few soft words he could not catch, and they moved away together, Colonel Dacre did not follow.

He was too honorable to seek to surprise their confidence, and, moreover, he was afraid of himself. If he met this man face to face he should kill him like a dog, for the old Cain was rampant in him at the moment, and he felt that his only chance was flight.

With a few bounds he reached the open space in front of the house, dashed through the gate, and hurried back to the Sun. He ordered something to be cooked for his supper, in order that he might not be disturbed just yet and then he shut himself in his own room—out of temptation’s way—thank Heaven for that! for it made him tremble to think how near he had been that night to committing a terrible crime.

When the fowl was ready, it was necessary to go down, and make a pretense of eating—of course. The landlord waited on him himself, and as he removed the cover, with a flourish, he said:

“You were asking if her ladyship was at the Grange, sir, this afternoon——”

“Well?” exclaimed Colonel Dacre, turning sharply round in his eagerness.

“I have ascertained that she arrived to-day.”

Colonel Dacre could not answer for a minute, he felt as if he were choking. He began to carve the fowl to gain time; and, having divided every joint, and distributed the pieces over the dish for mine host to hand round to some imaginary guest, he managed to say at last, with well-feigned indifference:

“Indeed; I suppose she came alone?”

“I suppose so, sir—she always does.”

There was a moment’s pause; and then he added cheerfully:

“This has been a stirring day, sir; it isn’t often we have two bedrooms occupied, and two suppers to cook. I wish it would occur oftener, I am sure. Sherry, sir?”

“Yes, yes,” answered the colonel feverishly; and he pushed forward his tumbler instead of his wine-glass; emptying it at a draft, as if it contained water, as soon as it was filled.

He was a very abstemious man generally, but he did not know what he was drinking to-night. His one thought was to slake his consuming thirst with whatever came easiest to hand.

“I am afraid you have a poor appetite, sir,” observed mine host, after watching him toy with a merrythought, like a delicate girl, and he filled up the tumbler again.

Colonel Dacre lifted it to his lips once more, and set it down half empty this time. He had fasted all day, and felt strangely excited by what he had taken, although it would have had no effect under different circumstances. Ordering the table to be cleared, he lighted a cigar, and began to smoke it slowly, his somber glance fixed on the open window, while he listened for every sound.

Presently the church clock struck twelve solemnly out in the darkness, making him start in his chair, and recalling him to the fact that his cigar had gone out. He tossed it through the window, and lighted another. He was in that nervous, overwrought state when his whole body seemed full of pulses, and his temples kept up a measured, oppressive beat.

Colonel Dacre fancied he knew who mine host’s other guest would be; but he had sworn to himself only to listen for his step. Though he was calm now, and could trust himself, it would be a terrible risk to see the face of Lady Gwendolyn’s lover, lest they should meet again one day when he was not master of himself.

Presently a step came along the road—a firm, brisk step, which had a cheerful sound—the step of a happy lover, who had brought away tender memories with him, and still feels the sweetness of a timid parting kiss lingering on his lips.

Colonel Dacre sat back firmly in his chair, and covered his eyes. But when the door opened he glanced up mechanically, and there stood the man he had sworn not to look upon for his soul’s sake.

The other drew back at once, with a hurried apology for his mistake, and a courteous bow; but Colonel Dacre knew that wherever they might meet he should recognize him again, and that the cool, proud face, with its insolent beauty, would be from henceforth imprinted on his brain.

CHAPTER V.

WOMAN’S WAYS.

Of course it is very comfortable to be a philosopher. When people have once succeeded in persuading themselves that it is as easy to reason as to feel, it is wonderful how smoothly life ends.

As Colonel Dacre sat in the little inn parlor that night, he tried hard to attain that enviable state of mind, and to be able to say, with a shrug of the shoulder:

“If she be not fair for me,

What care I how fair she be.”

But it would not do. He did care, and so much, that he could have dashed his head against the wall for very rage and misery.

But there was one thing he could not understand, and that was why Lady Teignmouth took so much interest in seeing him disenchanted. She must have sent him to Turoy, knowing quite well whom he would meet there, and enjoying the thought of his pain. It was strange to find a young and handsome woman so cruel—and he had never harmed her—that she should take pleasure in dealing him such a blow. But for some reason she was his enemy; and as he began to divine how utterly unscrupulous she was, the idea was not an agreeable one, by any means.

He passed the livelong night pondering, trying to come to some resolution; but unable to form any plan, so entirely stunned was he to find that the woman he had loved so chivalrously was unworthy of his long devotion.

Of course it would have been more dignified to leave Turoy early in the morning, and this had been his first intention; but as the night wore on a softer feeling intervened, and he decided that he must see Gwendolyn once more.

For two years now she had been the star of his life—his one only thought. To win her at last he had been ready to possess his soul in patience, and the longing was still strong on him to look on her again, ere he went sorrowfully into exile for her sake.

As dawn began to break, he went softly up-stairs, and lay down for awhile without undressing. When he heard people about below he was glad to rise again, and go out for a walk. Nothing was harder than to be inactive when his thoughts stung him like very swords.

On returning to the inn, two hours later, he heard, to his relief, that mine host’s other guest had already breakfasted, and was gone, taking his carpetbag with him.

“And quite the gentleman I am sure he was,” observed the landlord, smiling benignantly; “for he paid his bill without even looking at the items.”

“A hint for me,” thought the colonel, as he sat down to breakfast, with his face toward the Grange, a glimpse of which could be seen through the open window.

But it was not until nearly eleven o’clock that he saw the gate open, and Lady Gwendolyn came forth, her perfect figure showing to advantage in a closely fitting dark serge dress, while a jaunty little hat, garnished by a red feather, shaded, without concealing, her beautiful face. He fancied her manner was listless, and preoccupied, and she kept her eyes on the ground as she advanced. Nothing, however, showed her conscious of his scrutiny, and she did not so much as even glance toward his window as she went by.

Now, if the colonel had been a philosopher, here was a chance of airing his theories. But we have already said that he was nothing of the sort, and so he caught up his hat, and hurried after Lady Gwendolyn as fast as he could.

He came up with her just as she was crossing a stile leading into some meadows. She turned abruptly, and, startled by such a sudden apparition, would have fallen to the ground had he not put out his arm to save her.

For one brief, delicious, maddening moment she was leaning against his breast—so close that a stray lock of her dark hair blew across his lips, while the bewildering perfume he knew so well was fast stealing his senses, and weakening all his fine resolutions.

But directly she recovered her footing she disengaged herself, and changed rapidly from white to red, and then from red to white again, while she thanked him, in a constrained manner, for his assistance.

“I am not accustomed to these high stiles,” she said. And then she added coldly: “What brought you here, Colonel Dacre?”

“Isn’t the country worth seeing, Lady Gwendolyn?”

“Quite; only people never do come here to see the country.”

“There is ‘metal more attractive,’ perhaps.”

“Perhaps.” And she looked into his eyes unflinchingly, while her color wavered again. “Although I have retired from the world I have taken no vows, and am, therefore, still at liberty to welcome my friends.”

“Then I am forced to conclude that you do not look upon me as a friend, since you refused to see me last night?”

“I was not able to do so,” she answered coldly.

“I know; you were better employed.”

“Was I? You seem to be wonderfully well informed as to my movements, Colonel Dacre.”

“Too well, Lady Gwendolyn. But allow me to congratulate you upon having so quickly recovered from your sprain. You seemed to be suffering so much that afternoon I left you on the couch in my mother’s boudoir I almost feared you would not be able to walk for some time.”

The mere shadow of a smile hovered on Lady Gwendolyn’s red mouth; but she suppressed it directly, and said:

“A woman can generally manage to do anything she wants to do.”

“And you walked back to the Castle?”

“Really, Colonel Dacre, you are exceedingly curious!”

“I must confess that I am. Nobody likes to be deceived.”

“It isn’t pleasant, certainly,” she answered, with a bitter smile. “But women are quite accustomed to that sort of thing, you know.”

“Accustomed to deceive, you mean, of course.”

Lady Gwendolyn turned from him disdainfully.

“You, at any rate, ought to be indulgent to a failing of this kind, Colonel Dacre, since you have lived a lie, so to speak, for a great many years.”

He uttered a sharp exclamation of surprise at such an extraordinary accusation.

“What do you mean?” he inquired at last. “You are surely dreaming, Lady Gwendolyn.”

“I wish I were!” and there was a ring of passionate regret in her voice. “If all the world had disappointed me, I would still have sworn that you were true, until—until the day before yesterday.”

“And then?”

“And then I knew the truth.”

“What truth? Upon my word and honor, I have not the least idea what you mean?”

“Come, Colonel Dacre, is it worth while to deny anything to me? I do not accuse you, remember; I have no right; I simply state a fact. It is a pity you sought the meeting I would have avoided, for it must needs humiliate you as it pains me.”

“There is nothing in my past that humiliates me in the smallest degree. I have had great sorrows, but they were not brought about by any fault of my own. I came here to seek you because I considered that you owed me an explanation, and I did not choose you should be able to say that I could not defend myself against your implied accusation. But what I saw last night has altered my feeling in the matter, and if I sought you this morning it was only because I am a miserable, weak stupid, and wanted to see your face once more before we parted, never to meet again, I trust, on this side of the grave.”

Lady Gwendolyn had turned very pale, but her pride sustained her still, for the stately head never lowered itself one inch, and her full under lip curled in a disdainful smile.

“You must have seen some strange things last night to change your intentions and feelings so suddenly, Colonel Dacre.”

He was silent. Her calm effrontery was so startling that it seemed almost as easy at the moment to doubt his own eyes as to doubt her. But then she was only a fine actress, of course. She was so greedy of power that she could not bear to lose a single worshiper, and would have kept him at any cost if he showed that he was weak enough to give her his heart to toy with and break.

“The things that I saw last night were not strange,” he said hoarsely. “I dare say they would have seemed natural enough to any other looker-on, but, as I told you before, I am a miserable stupid; I believed in all women, and you above the rest; and now——”

“And now?” she echoed softly as he paused.

“And now I believe in none; and in you, least of all.”

“You are more candid than complimentary, Colonel Dacre.”

“Perhaps—I cannot flatter.”

“It would be almost better if you tried to acquire the accomplishment,” she returned haughtily. “People who pride themselves upon being frank are exceedingly bad company.”

“At any rate, I sha’n’t be in your way long, Lady Gwendolyn. I leave Turoy in a couple of hours.”

“For Borton Hall?”

And if he had been a coxcomb he would have detected the ring of suppressed eagerness in her voice.

“For a couple of days only. I am going abroad, and shall not probably return for three or four years—if then; so that I have a few arrangements to make with my steward. I shall let the Hall, if I can get a good tenant.”

“You cannot do better,” she said, with sudden, almost stern decision. “You have no right to live there, as it were, under false pretenses.”

“I really don’t understand you, Lady Gwendolyn, and must beg you will explain.”

“I did not understand you just now, Colonel Dacre; but I did not demand an explanation.”

“You had a perfect right to do so.”

“Possibly; but it is not my habit. If people take a pleasure in misjudging me——”

“A pleasure?” he interrupted vehemently. “Oh! if you only knew what it cost me last night to believe what I saw.”

“Then why did you believe it?”

“I could not help myself.”

“I make it a point of never believing anything I don’t wish to believe,” she said slowly and determinedly. “After all, it is so easy to make mistakes——”

“Under some circumstances. But if you actually see a person——”

“Then, of course, you cannot make a mistake. But people sometimes fancy they see things, you know. To be absolutely certain myself I should require to look into another’s face—so close that I could not be wrong, otherwise I would not allow myself to condemn even my greatest enemy. I have a great many faults, I know, but I always strive to be just.”

“And yet, you condemned me unheard, Lady Gwendolyn.”

“When?” she asked.

For sole answer he took from his pocketbook the little note she had left on the table of his mother’s room the day of her pretended accident, and held it up before her eyes.

“Well?” she said half defiantly.

“Was that either just or true?”

“It was true, anyhow.”

“You cannot prove it, Lady Gwendolyn. I should be an idiot, indeed, if, having a secret to guard——”

“Which you admitted,” put in Lady Gwendolyn.

“Or, rather say, which I did not deny. But I repeat that I should have been an idiot indeed if, under these circumstances, I had introduced you into the very room where you would find something to betray me.”

“There was nothing in that room to betray you.”

“Where, then?”

“I am not bound to say.”

“I think you are, for your own sake. I am sure you would not like me to think that you had taken any mean advantage of the small courtesy it was such a great pleasure to me to show you.”

“How can it signify to me what you think?” she flashed round upon him to say.

His silence was a rebuke, and shamed her as no words could have done. She colored hotly up to the very roots of her hair.

“I mean,” she added, “that you would be sure to misunderstand me.”

“On the contrary, Lady Gwendolyn.”

“Anyhow, I will tell you nothing. I have a right to my secrets as well as you.”

“Just as you like,” he said, bowing coldly. “It is better so, perhaps. But I am keeping you from your walk, Lady Gwendolyn. Let me thank you before I go for the many pleasant hours you have allowed me to pass in your company. The memory of them will always be both a pleasure and a pang.”

He could almost have vowed that he saw two large tears in her dark eyes; nevertheless, she said, carelessly enough to outward appearance:

“It is not very probable that I shall ever cause you another pang, so that you can afford to pardon me. I have quite made up my mind not to return to Teignmouth.”

“I suppose one may expect to hear of your marriage shortly?” he observed, conscious of another pang at this moment—a pang so strong that it whitened his very lips, and made his heart tremble within him.

“My marriage? No, thank you. You are much more likely to hear of my taking the veil.”

“You are the last person I know to do such a thing as that, Lady Gwendolyn. You are too fond of the world to desert it.”

“You think so?” she answered, with a gravity that surprised him. “I suppose the kind of intercourse you and I have had makes it impossible that you should understand me.”

“And you think that I was flirting with you, Lady Gwendolyn?” he said, in a stifled voice.

“Assuredly; and why not?”

“I should not have dreamed of insulting you thus. The whole aim and ambition of my life was to win you for my wife—that I swear.”

“And yet you say you would not have dreamed of insulting me.”

“By professing what I did not feel, I meant!”

“Or promising what you could not perform?”

“I never did such a thing in my life, Lady Gwendolyn.”

“According to your own account you were on the brink of it a little while ago. What right have you to ask any woman to be your wife? And, supposing she accepted you, what, then?” inquired Lady Gwendolyn, with angry vehemence.

“Why, then, we should marry, I presume.”

“How could you?”

“I see no just cause or impediment, Lady Gwendolyn!”

“Then I am sorry for you, that is all. I can understand people’s doing wrong from the evil impulse of the moment; but it must be a very bad man indeed who would commit a deliberate fraud, and ruin the woman who trusted in him.”

“I don’t understand why my marriage would have such terrible consequences, Lady Gwendolyn. One would think that I was a monster in human form.”

And then, in spite of himself, he smiled to think how completely Lady Gwendolyn had turned the tables upon him. He had joined her, intending simply to bid her adieu, in order that he might look once more on the fatal beauty that had stolen his heart away, and if any conversation did take place he certainly pictured himself as the accuser, whereas he had done little else but defend himself, and had only been able to get in his own complaints edgewise.

Decidedly Lady Gwendolyn understood the art, and also the advantage, of carrying the war into the enemy’s country. And yet, though he had seen her in the arms of another man, and knew her to be an unprincipled coquette, how he yearned after her, his mad infatuation increasing as he gazed, until he felt as if he could not give her up were she twenty times worse than she was.

He drew near to her with a look in his eyes no woman can misunderstand even when she sees it for the first time. His lips were trembling with the eager, passionate words that flowed up from his heart; his face was as white as death.

“Gwendolyn,” he said hoarsely, “you must despise me as much as I despise myself, but I cannot let you go.”

The hour of her supreme triumph had come—the hour she had panted for, and longed for even in her dreams. This man, who had resisted her so long, was at her feet now, in spite of himself, and for one moment her victory seemed very sweet.

Then a revulsion of feeling came over her, and she hated him as intensely as she had loved him before. If he despised himself for falling into her power, if he was only in love with her beauty and would still win her for that when he deemed her unworthy of any finer sentiment, her victory was no better really than a defeat.

She drew away from him quickly, and burst into a passion of tears.

“You are right,” she sobbed out; “I do despise you; but I despise myself still more. How horribly I must have lowered myself to inspire such a feeling as you have dared confess. At least, you might have spared me the knowledge, Colonel Dacre, if only because I am of the same sex as your mother.”

“Gwendolyn, you don’t understand me. I am asking you to be my wife.”

“Which is the greatest insult of all,” she responded. “Oh! go away—pray, pray go away. I would rather be alone.”

“Give me my answer first, Lady Gwendolyn?”

“You have had your answer.”

He opened his mouth to reply, when suddenly Lady Gwendolyn’s face assumed an expression of stolid composure, and she added, in a loud, formal voice:

“I am afraid you will find this a very dull place, Colonel Dacre. Beyond a little fishing, there is really nothing for a gentleman to do. Oh! is that really you, Captain Wyndham?” holding out her hand cordially, to a tall, pale man, who had approached them without attracting her companion’s attention. “Allow me to introduce you to Colonel Dacre—a near neighbor of my brother’s, at Teignmouth.”

The two men bowed to each other coldly. It is odd how quickly lovers scent a rival, and no very friendly look passed between them; although, outwardly, each assumed to be gratified at making the other’s acquaintance. But Colonel Dacre was too agitated to be able to keep up this farce long, and, pleading business, left the two together. But instead of going on to the station, according to his original intention, he returned to the inn, and took possession once more of the little parlor he had occupied the day before.

He cursed his own folly bitterly; but even if this woman destroyed him, he could not tear himself away from her now. The very air she breathed was sweet to him, and yet, poor deluded mortal, he had fancied it possible to escape from her toils.

That day passed like a dream. In comparison with the agitated ones that followed it seemed so vague and colorless to Colonel Dacre, that it slipped from his memory later as if it had never been.

He saw no sign of Lady Gwendolyn again, and the Grange windows did not betray her presence. At dusk he ventured out for a stroll, and mechanically—guided by fate, no doubt—he crossed the stile that led into Turoy Wood—a pretty shaded walk in the sunny part of the day, but almost dark now.

He walked on steadily for about half an hour, finding it a relief from the worry of his thoughts to be moving, and minding little where he went.

But presently he came back to himself with a start. He distinctly heard, a few paces in front of him, the voice of the man who had roused all the Cain in him, and made him afraid of himself. And he knew, by the sudden wild riot in his pulses, and the mad jealousy in his heart, that he was no better to be trusted than before, and so, to his infinite regret later, he hurried from the spot, and made his way back to the inn as fast as he could.

He did not even feel safe until he had bolted the parlor door, although Mr. Wiginton distinctly said he did not expect another customer that night, and shut up the house at eleven o’clock, as usual.

Colonel Dacre went to his room then, even undressed, and lay down, although he knew sleeping was out of the question. He heard all the hours strike up to three o’clock, and then he fell into what seemed like a doze, although all his senses were unnaturally acute. So acute, indeed, that when he heard a groan presently, he knew what direction it had proceeded from, and did not wait for a repetition to spring out of bed, and hurry into his clothes.

In another minute he was down the stairs, and, unbolting the door softly, so as not to disturb mine host, he found himself in the garden.

Another groan, fainter though than the first, guided him to a little copse by the roadside, where lay, apparently in the agonies of death, Lady Gwendolyn’s “braw wooer,” the man whose splendid privileges he had envied the night before.

For one cruel moment Colonel Dacre rejoiced to see his enemy laid so low; but better feelings intervened, and he remembered nothing but that the other was in a sore strait, and needed his aid.

He knelt down beside him, and said quite gently:

“I am afraid you are hurt. Have you had an accident?”

The dim eyes unclosed, and the blue lips muttered a word faintly. But although Colonel Dacre bent close down he could not catch it, and he shook his head expressively.

The dying man made a great effort, and repeated, in a loud whisper:

“Poisoned.”

“By whom?” inquired Colonel Dacre, resolutely but reluctantly.

But the poor creature’s mind had wandered off, and he babbled of “Mother” incoherently, as if he fancied he were a child again.

Colonel Dacre would have fetched some brandy from the inn, but as he saw that no human means could avail aught, he considered it better to remain where he was.

Almost involuntarily he began to repeat the beautiful prayer with which most of us begin and end our day, and when he came to “Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive them that trespass against us,” the dying man raised himself on his elbow, and said, loudly and distinctly:

“Tell her I forgive her, and——”

But the sentence was never finished in this world. He fell back heavily on the turf, and when Colonel Dacre looked into his face he saw that he was gone.

CHAPTER VI.

THE LAST WALTZ.

For fully five minutes Colonel Dacre knelt beside the lifeless body, then he rose up stern and resolute to do his duty. First of all he roused Wiginton, and had the dead man carried into the inn, and laid on the bed he had occupied twenty-four hours ago. Wiginton evidently thought that it was a case of sudden death, for he said, with real feeling:

“Poor gentleman! And he looked so healthy, too. Hadn’t I better go for a doctor, sir?”

“Perhaps you had; although it will be of no use,” was Colonel Dacre’s reply.

“I dare say not; but it might have an ugly look if we tried to hush the thing up, sir.”

Colonel Dacre saw the reasonableness of this argument, although it had not occurred to him in the agitated preoccupation of the moment. He promised to watch beside the dead man while Mr. Wiginton went to the village to fetch the doctor. But it so happened that Doctor Dale had been up all night with a patient, and was just passing the house on his way home as Wiginton issued forth.

His visit was a mere matter of form, naturally. As there were no signs of violence on the body Doctor Dale drew the same conclusion as Wiginton, that the man died by the visitation of God. He put a few questions to Colonel Dacre, as to whether he knew the deceased gentleman, or had any reason to suppose that he had been the victim of foul play. And on the other replying in the negative he seemed perfectly satisfied, and said he would go home and get a little rest, and send round to the coroner later in the morning.

“He has probably died from heart-disease,” he concluded, moving toward the door. “But that we shall ascertain, I have no doubt.”

“You will have a post-mortem examination, I suppose.”

“Certainly; at least, I have no doubt of it whatever.”

“You are not prepared, then, to give a certificate as to the cause of death?”

“Well, not exactly. I like to be very careful in these matters, as one’s reputation is often at stake. This gentleman’s family will investigate the case thoroughly we may be sure, and I think it is better to be beforehand with them. You say you have no idea who the poor fellow is?”

“Not the faintest. But he may have letters in his pocket that would enlighten us.”

“Possibly,” replied Doctor Dale, coming back from the door. “It would be as well to look.”

But save an ordinary-looking cigar-case there was nothing whatever in the dead man’s pockets. It almost seemed, indeed, as if this were a precaution, and not an accident, for the mark on his pocket handkerchief had been cut out, and the initials on the cigar-case defaced.

Doctor Dale was not a suspicious man, evidently, for this did not appear to strike him as strange. He simply remarked as he moved away again:

“The police will, no doubt, be able to trace him. It would be as well if you were to communicate with them at once, Wiginton, I think. I must get home to bed or I shall be good for nothing all day,” he added half apologetically, “and I am nearly worn out. I owe it to my patients as well as to myself to take rest when I can, for no doctor can trust to his head when it is confused for want of sleep.”

“I have no doubt you are quite right,” answered Colonel Dacre, with a secret thrill of satisfaction, for he wanted, above all things, to gain time. “It is often necessary to consider oneself for the sake of others.”

“I shall see you later, of course?” said Doctor Dale, as he departed for his well-earned repose, and Colonel Dacre nodded.

He had no wish to shirk any inquiry, so far as he was personally concerned, but he meant to shelter the guilty, wretched woman whom he loved still, in spite of himself, and then forget her—if he could!

If he could! Ah! that was a painful proviso; for, somehow, he could only think of her even now—standing over her victim—as he had known her in the early days of her innocent girlhood, when he had believed her to be as true as steel, and as worthy of his worship as any saint.

And this was her work. How thankful he was to escape from its contemplation, and lock the door on the white face, which was fast settling into the solemn calm of death, no words can tell.

He followed Wiginton down-stairs, and when mine host, who looked thoroughly overcome, suggested that a glass of brandy would not come amiss, Colonel Dacre welcomed the suggestion, and felt much fortified for the task before him, when he had taken a good dose of the stimulant. Then he went to the Grange. He determined that he would see Lady Gwendolyn at once—even if he had to steal into her house like a thief—for her only chance was to escape before the post-mortem examination made the cause of death evident, and set the police on the track of the murderer.

The dead man’s presence at Turoy once traced to her influence, and their secret meetings known, there would be no hope of her getting away; and though she deserved her fate, as he was fain to confess, he meant to save her, even if he perished in her place. But as he was leaving the inn, Wiginton said rather dubiously:

“It’s no use my going to the village after the police, for Lady Lenox sent for the inspector over to her place last night, I heard them say. At her last ball some thieves got into the house, and stole a good deal of plate, so that she determined to have somebody to watch the house this time. I suppose I had better go there, sir, hadn’t I?”

“If you are sure to find him.”

“There’s no doubt about that. I saw him outside the fly that took her ladyship to the ball. It came from the George, and I suppose the driver gave him a lift so far on his way.”

“Do you mean that Lady Gwendolyn St. Maur went to the ball, Mr. Wiginton?”

“I believe so, sir. The two families were always intimate, and it isn’t likely they would leave her out.”

“But she would surely have returned by this time.”

“I think not. Lady Lenox is noted for keeping up her balls until six or seven o’clock in the morning, and those who can stand such hours have breakfast before they go home. She is a very excitable person, and always turns night into day.”

Colonel Dacre looked at his watch.

“It is not ten minutes past four,” he said. “How long would it take us to go to Lady Lenox’s house?”

“About half an hour, sir. But I needn’t take you—surely?”

“I should prefer to accompany you, as I want to see somebody whom I am likely to find there. But we had better be quick.”

“I am ready, sir,” answered Wiginton; and they started at a brisk pace for Bridgton Hall.

About half-way there they met the inspector with his two men on their way home, looking none the worse for their night’s watch, thanks to their numerous visits to the butler’s pantry. Colonel Dacre heard from them that the ball was virtually over, but that a few favorite guests still remained, although they could not exactly say who these last were.

“However, Lady Gwendolyn St. Maur is one,” added the inspector, volunteering the information Colonel Dacre dared not ask; “for the driver from the George was asleep in the harness-room when I left; and I don’t expect he would have stayed there unless he had been obliged.”

It did not seem probable, certainly, and so Colonel Dacre left Wiginton to return with the inspector, and went on alone.

Of course Lady Gwendolyn had gone to the ball, and, of course, she would be the gayest of them all, outwardly, for had she not a secret to hide? He could not help pitying her somehow. She had put her hand to a terrible thing, but maybe she had had a scoundrel to deal with, and had been sorely tempted, poor, unhappy child!

His heart was beginning to soften strangely when he came within sight and sound of Bridgton Hall, but it hardened again as he paused to listen to a waltz he knew only too well. Surely that must be Lady Gwendolyn’s touch—her spirited playing. For the band had been dismissed, evidently, and they were keeping up the ball to the music of the piano, which came surging through the open windows and out into the dewy shrubberies as if it would have the young man listen and remember. And he did remember, to his torture.

The waltz finished as he drew near to the door, and two women came forward to the window, and stood there inhaling the freshness of the morning. Both were dressed in white: one looked flushed and excited under her wreath of water-lilies; the other, languid but lovely, turned her calm deep eyes his way, and, recognizing him, grew suddenly scarlet to the roots of her hair.

He stepped forward at once and lifted his hat, saying, in a cold, constrained voice:

“Might I speak with you a moment, Lady Gwendolyn?”

The color faded out of her face, but she looked up at him steadily and unflinchingly.

“I am afraid I have no time now, Colonel Dacre. I have ordered my fly, and expect it round every minute.”

“I will not detain your ladyship long,” he said; and his voice was like ice. “It is absolutely necessary that you should hear what I have to say, otherwise I would not disturb you at such a time and in such a place.”

She lifted her head with a haughty gesture.

“It is impossible you should have anything of so much importance to communicate to me, Colonel Dacre.”

“I think you will find that you are mistaken, Lady Gwendolyn.”

His stern, decided manner evidently startled her, for she turned to Lady Teignmouth, who was standing at her side, and said quietly:

“Has anything happened, Pauline? Reggie was quite well yesterday——”

Lady Teignmouth laughed a nervous, tuneless laugh.

“Don’t be absurd, Gwen! We should have been sure to hear if anything had been the matter.”

“Of course. I am very foolish to frighten myself so easily; but I am tired and nervous, I suppose. I wish Lady Lenox wouldn’t make me stay so long. I have tried to slip away half a dozen times at least, and she has caught me and carried me back. It is a great mistake, to my mind, to bring town habits and town hours into the country, where we are nothing if we are not rural.”

She yawned demonstratively as she spoke, and appeared to have forgotten Colonel Dacre’s very existence, until he reminded her of it by saying formally:

“Perhaps your ladyship will allow me to accompany you as far as Turoy? I am sorry to annoy you by persisting, but I must speak with you privately—for your own sake.”

“Oh, you horrible man!” exclaimed Lady Teignmouth, with playful impertinence. “You are always full of mysteries! When I last saw you at Teignmouth you had something very important and very secret to say to Gwen, you know.”

He colored resentfully, remembering how she had sent him to Turoy to meet the greatest sorrow of his life. Of course she could not know how tragically and painfully he was to be cured of his infatuation; but she certainly guessed that he would meet a successful rival at the Grange, and had taken a malicious pleasure in his discomfiture. He answered coldly:

“I don’t know why your ladyship should infer that what I had to say to Lady Gwendolyn the other day was at all secret or mysterious. I certainly gave you no grounds for such a belief.”

“You forget that women do not always need to be told things, Colonel Dacre.”

“They have no right to make sure of anything they have not been told,” he said shortly.

“What a miserable, matter-of-fact place the world would be if it were forbidden to exercise one’s imagination a little!”

“It would be safer, anyhow,” he replied; and as Lady Gwendolyn’s fly drove up at this moment, he opened the door and handed her in, a little surprised that she made no further objection to his plan.

Lady Teignmouth parted from them with a jest, followed by a laugh that sounded forced and unnatural at the moment, but struck him as strangely incongruous when, on looking back, he saw her standing still where they had left her, with such a haggard, troubled face, and intense eyes, that he shuddered, and wondered if a woman with that countenance could have an ordinary destiny.

“Well,” she observed at last, “I thought you wished to speak to me.”

He came back to himself with a start.

“So I did. It is necessary for your personal safety that you should know the truth at once. The gentleman whom you met in the wood last evening died two hours ago. He told me, with almost his last breath, that he had been poisoned, and sent you a message of forgiveness. All this will never transpire, of course, however wrong it may be of me to conceal the truth; but, unfortunately, there is likely to be a post-mortem examination, and in that case everything may come out. Are you prepared to face it?”

“What do you mean? Are you mad?” she exclaimed, with a look of apprehension that was really splendid acting. “You cannot wonder that I doubt your sanity, since a few hours ago you were pretending to love me, and now you actually dare to accuse me of a horrible crime.”

“Look here, Lady Gwendolyn,” he said hoarsely; “my love was no pretense, and you know it; my accusation is no falsehood, and you know that, too. I witnessed your first meeting with the wretched man who is dead. I know that you were together again last night, for I was in the wood at about nine o’clock, and I heard him address you in terms of reproach. Of course I witnessed nothing that passed after this, for I hurried away as fast as I could; but at three o’clock the poor creature, who had evidently tried to crawl to the inn for aid, died at the roadside, with his head on my arm; his last words being: ‘Tell her I forgive her, and——’ Perhaps you can fill up the hiatus. I pretend to understand nothing that I did not see and hear.”

She listened to him in stupefied silence, and when he had finished, she said, in a low, shrinking voice:

“Describe the man to me.”

Colonel Dacre had not forgotten his appearance, and drew his portrait accurately enough.

Lady Gwendolyn’s head sank lower and lower on her breast.

“And he told you he had been poisoned?” she asked.

“Yes; and a man does not lie at such a time.”

“He might have been mistaken,” she said, under her breath.

“Impossible!”

“You would rather believe the worst, I see.”

“On the contrary, I would give my right arm to be able to trust you, Lady Gwendolyn,” he cried vehemently. “If I live to be a hundred years old I shall never have such a sorrow as this—to be forced to judge the woman I loved better than my life.”

He expected a disdainful smile, but none came. She only passed her hand over her brow, as if she were confused. Then, suddenly, her lips took a resolute fold, and she lifted her head boldly.

“He did not mention my name?” she said.

“No.”

“Then you know nothing?”

“People do not commit such dark deeds before witnesses; but I fancy such evidence as I could give, if I chose, would hang any one.”

She shuddered convulsively—it was the first sign of actual fear she had shown.

“You surely can have no motive for interfering in the matter,” she said, after a long pause; and watching his face anxiously as she spoke.

“When I have warned you my part in the tragedy is played out, Lady Gwendolyn, so far as you are concerned. I shall have to appear at the inquest, of course; but I shall simply state there that I heard the poor man groan, and found him lying on the bank in a dying state.”

“And if they ask you if he spoke?”

“Then I shall tell a lie for the first time in my life,” he answered sternly. “I would not do it to save myself, but you——”

“Thank you,” she said, in a quiet, firm tone; “that was all I wanted to know. Perhaps one of these days you will understand things better than you do now, Colonel Dacre; meanwhile, I do not think you will reproach yourself much for what you have done this day—for—for”—hesitatingly—“things are not always as they seem. I don’t ask you to shake hands with me, although this is probably the last time we shall ever meet—and we were once friends—but I shall always remember you with gratitude.”

“And you will leave England at once?” he said, as the carriage stopped.

“Never mind about me; I can take care of myself,” she answered, and, jumping lightly down, she disappeared into the house.

Half an hour later a slight figure in black came stealthily out of the Grange; but instead of passing through the great gate, slipped round by the shrubberies and out into the road by a gap in the hedge. But Colonel Dacre, who was watching from his window, saw it plainly in spite of these precautions, and murmured fervently within himself:

“Thank Heaven, she has thought better of it, and is gone!”

CHAPTER VII.

A NOBLE SACRIFICE.

Through the lanes, swiftly, but ever so wearily, sped Lady Gwendolyn. Her eyes were dim with unshed tears—she had no time for womanly weakness—her lips were compressed, until they looked like a mere thread; her head drooped on to her bosom. She had never known what shame meant before, and she felt as if she should never be able to look her fellow creatures in the face again.

It took her half an hour only to reach Bridgton Hall—this morning. The stable clock was striking seven as she entered the grounds, and made her way hurriedly to the front door. Everything was very quiet, or seemed so to her, recalling the gay music and laughter that had filled the house a few hours back.

The butler was yawning in the hall, but did not appear at all surprised to see her. He was getting too much accustomed to the caprices and vagaries of fine ladies to be surprised at anything now.

“Lady Lenox was at breakfast,” he said, “and Miss Wyndham and three gentlemen were there; but he fancied Lady Teignmouth had gone to her room. However, he would inquire directly, if Lady Gwendolyn would step into the drawing-room for a moment.”

“Thank you, I need not trouble you,” her ladyship replied. “I know Lady Teignmouth’s room, and will go and see for myself.”

“Shall I tell Lady Lenox you are here, my lady?”

“It is not worth while, as I shall only stay a few minutes.”

And, hearing the breakfast-room door open, Lady Gwendolyn fled precipitately. The thing she could have least borne at this moment was an encounter with Lady Lenox, or any of her fast friends.

Knocking at her sister-in-law’s door, she was told to enter. Lady Teignmouth was reclining on a couch, her face as white as her embroidered peignoir, and she looked startled and surprised at this sudden apparition.

“Why, I thought you had gone back to the Grange!” she said.

“I did go back,” returned the other coldly; “but I simply changed my dress, and returned on foot, as I wished to speak to you.”

Lady Teignmouth knitted her brows, and did not seem overpleased.

“I can’t imagine what you can have to say to me of so much consequence as that, Gwen. But you do take very ridiculous notions into your head at times. However, now you are here you may as well have a cup of coffee. I sent Clémentine to get me something, and”—with evident relief—“here she comes. Now make us comfortable, Clémentine; I am dreadfully hungry. I hope you have brought enough for two.”

“There is half a chicken, and some ham, my lady.”

“And I shall take nothing but a cup of coffee,” put in Lady Gwendolyn.

“Nonsense, Gwen; it’s the greatest mistake in the world not to eat. When people lose their appetites they invariably lose their looks.”

“I’ll take my chance of that,” replied Lady Gwendolyn coldly. “Do you want Clémentine?” she added, in a lower voice. “It is really necessary that I should speak to you at once.”

“What, have you got mysteries as well as Colonel Dacre?” she exclaimed, with a levity that would have displeased Lady Gwendolyn at any time, and absolutely disgusted her now. “I am very unfortunate in my friends.”

“I think you are,” replied Lady Gwendolyn, with involuntary sternness.

Lady Teignmouth looked straight at her sister-in-law, flushed slightly, and then assumed a sulky air.

“At any rate, Reggie doesn’t complain,” she said at last. “And if he is satisfied no one else has a right to interfere.”

Lady Gwendolyn sipped her coffee, and was silent, waiting for Clémentine to go. But her sister-in-law evidently made work to detain her; not, perhaps, relishing the prospect of a tête-à-tête.

However, at last she could not find any further excuse for her presence, and dismissed her. Nothing loath, Lady Gwendolyn opened her mouth to speak, then, but Pauline stopped her nervously.

“I know you are going to say something disagreeable, that will spoil my appetite; and after being up all night, I really require support. Please, therefore, let me finish my breakfast before you begin.”

“I am afraid I can’t; every moment is precious.”

“I warn you fairly, I don’t believe you. However, I suppose you must have your own way,” returned Lady Teignmouth. And reaching out her hand for a silver flask that lay on the dressing-table, she poured half its contents into her coffee-cup, and drank it off like one well accustomed to potent drafts.

Lady Gwendolyn watched her with rising horror and dismay. The other laughed defiantly, pretending to be vastly amused at the effect she saw she had created.

“I thought I should shock you,” she said; “but, really, I have such miserable nerves, I could not get on without stimulants. Now, you may talk as much as you like; only you will try and be a little more interesting, won’t you? You have no idea how prosy you have grown of late.”

“I am afraid you will think me worse than prosy before I have done, Pauline; but I cannot compromise with my conscience. You must know the exact truth——”

“I hate truths,” interrupted Lady Teignmouth petulantly.

“I dare say; nevertheless, you must listen to me. You are my brother’s wife, and for his sake I will spare you if I can. But you must leave Bridgton directly; do you hear?”

“Yes, I hear,” replied Pauline obstinately; “but I have no intention of obeying.”

“Not if your safety depends upon it?”

“I don’t know what you mean. I am quite safe here.”

“Yon know better, Pauline.”

“Indeed I do not. I was never good at guessing riddles.”

“Listen to me! You must and shall go at once. I am no hypocrite, and, therefore, I do not pretend to care much what becomes of you personally; but I love my brother with all my heart, and would not have a shadow of dishonor to fall on his name.”

“He knew perfectly well that I was coming to Bridgton,” answered Lady Teignmouth, in a sulky, aggrieved tone.

“Possibly; but he did not know whom you had come to meet.”

“One can’t help people following. I don’t suppose you invited Colonel Dacre to Turoy; but he is there.”

“That is quite a different thing. I am not a married woman, neither have I given Colonel Dacre secret meetings in the wood. I did not come here to accuse, but to warn you, Pauline. You must leave the neighborhood at once, for Mr. Belmont is dead.”

Lady Teignmouth uttered a faint cry, and put out her hand for the flask mechanically; but Lady Gwendolyn took possession of it, adding resolutely:

“You shall not stupefy yourself, for you will want all your wits. An inquest will be held on the body at about two o’clock, and you know best what may come out. I shall be silent, for my poor brother’s sake; but others who have not the same motive for shielding you that I have, may have seen something, and be quite willing to give all the information they can. You are safe, so far as Colonel Dacre is concerned; for, though he knows all, you have managed things so cleverly that he thinks I am the wrong-doer.”

Something very like a smile moved Lady Teignmouth’s pale lips. Even at this supreme moment she could enjoy the triumph of having hoodwinked and deceived a man of the world like Colonel Dacre.

If she had injured her sister-in-law at the same time, and destroyed all her hopes in life, what did it matter so long as she herself escaped? It was a principle with Pauline never to trouble herself about other people’s affairs, and to shift her own burden off her own shoulders to somebody else’s whenever she could.

“If that is the case, I see no reason why I should disturb myself in any way. The affair is sure to blow over comfortably if we keep quiet; and, of course, you won’t say anything, for Reggie’s sake.”

The tranquil egotism of this speech roused Lady Gwendolyn at last, and she turned upon her angrily.

“You are right—it is Reggie, and Reggie only, I consider in this matter. You have spoiled his life, poor fellow! but you shall not drag his honor through the mire if I can help it.”

“You rave like a tragedy queen,” observed Lady Teignmouth insolently. “Dragging your husband’s honor through the mire is only done now on the stage.”

“I find, to my sorrow, that it is still possible in real life,” replied Lady Gwendolyn, with a strong effort at self-control.

“Because you are romantic, my dear. When once you get married you will look at things in a more matter-of-fact light. Reggie and I are tied to each other, but neither of us has a mind to make our chains too heavy. He goes his way, and I go mine. I do not call him to account for anything he may have done during our separation, and claim a like indulgence from him. I should not in the least object to his having a little flirtation, if it amused him; and I don’t really believe that he wishes to deprive me of a similar distraction.”

“And you call that a flirtation?” exclaimed Lady Gwendolyn indignantly.

“Certainly. The moment I found Mr. Belmont was taking me too much au sérieux, I told him I would have nothing more to say to him. Even if he had not died so suddenly, I should never have spoken to him again.”

“I see; he was becoming a nuisance, and you decided to get rid of him by fair means or foul.”

“What on earth do you mean? Of course, if I declined his further acquaintance, he had no alternative but to accept his dismissal.”

“It is no use talking to me in this way. I know all,” answered Lady Gwendolyn gloomily. “Mr. Belmont confessed the truth with almost his last breath.”

“What truth? I wish you would not be so enigmatical, Gwen. When I can’t understand people directly they always bore me.”

“Very well, since you will have it, he said he had been poisoned.”

“Poisoned!” echoed Lady Teignmouth, in a tone of incredulity that was unmistakably genuine. “I don’t believe it! He was with me for nearly an hour, and though he threatened all sorts of foolish things—as men do under those circumstances—I am sure he never dreamed of carrying them out.”

“Pauline!” cried her sister-in-law, “will you swear that you had no hand in Mr. Belmont’s death?”

“I? Why, really, Gwen, you must be mad!” And Lady Teignmouth looked at her anxiously. “How could I possibly have had anything to do with it?”

“He was in your way,” said Lady Gwendolyn, so much impressed by the other’s manner, that she actually began to believe in her innocence.

“Not at all. I never allow any one to be in my way. If he and I had both lived to be a hundred years old, I should not have spoken to him again.”

“But he might have spoken to you.”

“I don’t think he would, for, with all his faults, he was a gentleman. You may depend upon it,” she added argumentatively, “that he died of heart-disease. Those strong-looking men often have some secret malady that carries them off suddenly.”

“But I told you that he said he had been poisoned—and a dying man does not lie.”

“Really, I hardly know how to believe it.” And Lady Teignmouth looked her companion steadily in the eyes.

There was a minute’s silence, and then she added quietly:

“Do you think that Colonel Dacre killed him?”

“What motive could he have for even wishing him dead?” inquired Lady Gwendolyn, flushing.

“According to your own showing he took him for a rival.”

“I never said that.”

“Well, he fancied it was you who had met him in the wood; and that would naturally anger him, since he loves you himself.”

“Has he told you so, pray?”

“Not in so many words; but I have been aware of the fact for over a year now.”

“And, therefore, you gave him my address at Turoy?”

Lady Teignmouth colored.

“Why not?” she asked evasively. “Colonel Dacre would be an excellent match. He is heir presumptive to a baronetcy; and has now a fine place and ten thousand a year. You might go farther and fare worse.”

“Still, there might have been drawbacks of which you knew nothing. Even if I had been engaged to Mr. Belmont, Colonel Dacre would have had no right to resent it.”

“You had refused him, then?” inquired the other curiously.

“Certainly not; he had never asked me.”

“Then it was your own fault.”

Lady Gwendolyn was silent. Lady Teignmouth was the last person in the world of whom she would have made a confidante.

Pauline peered into her face for a minute as if she would read her thoughts. But finding no enlightenment in the impassible face before her, she added:

“Anyhow, you will never persuade me that you might not have married Colonel Dacre had you chosen. Upon one point I claim to be infallible—I always know when a man is in love.”

“Do you, indeed? You must have studied the subject very carefully,” replied her sister-in-law.

“I don’t see how one is to help it, if one is tolerably good-looking. Men are so troublesome, you know.”

“Do you think so? I never knew one yet who would not take a ‘No.’”

“Really!” And the countess smiled deceitfully. “I suppose I wasn’t sufficiently firm; for no man ever took my ‘No.’ I refused Reggie four times.”

“Nonsense!” exclaimed Gwendolyn indignantly. “My brother was not the kind of man to repeat an offer, if it had been once refused. However,” she added, cooling down suddenly, “I did not come to discuss such questions with you. Mr. Belmont has not died a natural death, I am afraid; and at the inquest everything must come out. Forewarned is forearmed, and you can do as you think proper now.”

“And I think proper to stay quietly where I am,” returned Pauline coolly. “No one can do me any harm, excepting you; and though I am quite aware that you would not spare me for my own sake, I hardly think you will try to break your brother’s heart. With all my faults, he is foolish enough to care for me a little still; but he cares for his honor still more; and if the least shadow were cast upon that, the consequences would be terrible.”

“And do you suppose nobody witnessed your meetings with Mr. Belmont?”

“I naturally took care about that.”

“In fact, you made use of the Grange, and of my servants, in order to cover your faults, counting upon the very mistake that Colonel Dacre made.”

“Exactly. Why not? Nothing of this sort could harm you, as you were not a married woman; and, so far as your servants were concerned, I merely told them that you would arrive home so tired you would not care to see any one; and they immediately inferred from this that your visitor was in some way objectionable. I told Hannah to say ‘Not at home,’ which would have simplified the matter, and saved a good deal of breath; but she assured me neither she nor her husband would tell a lie, and they should know what to say quite well if I left them alone.”

“But I was not in the house, surely, when Colonel Dacre called?”

“The first time——”

“Then he came twice?” interrupted her sister-in-law.

“Or even three times; he was so very determined to see you, and so fully persuaded that you were deceiving him.”

Lady Gwendolyn lowered her head thoughtfully. All these complications harassed her. She began to wonder if Colonel Dacre had carried his determined spirit so far as to rid himself of a supposed rival. And yet his horror and indignation when he accused her had seemed so natural she hardly knew how to distrust him. Anyhow, better it should be him than Pauline—since Pauline’s destinies were bound up in those of her brother—and she loved Reggie so dearly.

She looked up presently and said:

“I am sorry I did not see him, it might have been better for us all. But it is no use talking of ‘might have beens!’—my chief concern is the present. I wish you would leave Bridgton, Pauline. You know perfectly well that if you are identified as the lady Mr. Belmont met in the wood, Reggie will never forgive you.”

“I wish you would give me credit for a little common sense, Gwendolyn. I don’t mean to be identified as any lady in particular. Not a soul knew that I was at Turoy excepting Hannah and her husband, and I have bought their silence. Moreover, they are fully convinced that I left Turoy exactly two hours before I really did. You see, you may always trust me to guard poor Teignmouth’s honor. I was obliged to see Mr. Belmont; but I took care to manage the affair in a way that would compromise me as little as possible.”

“I think you might have told me what use you were going to make of my house, Pauline.”

“That would have been very wise, wouldn’t it? since you would have taken good care that our meeting did not come off.”

“All the better.”

“Allow me to tell you, Gwen, that with all your cleverness, there are some things you do not at all understand.”

“You are perfectly right, and I have reason to be thankful that it is so,” retorted Lady Gwendolyn, as she finished her coffee and rose to her feet. “Anyhow, you know the truth now, Pauline; and let me tell you this much before I go: I will hide your faults and follies this once, at any sacrifice, for my brother’s sake; but the next time such a thing happens you must take your chance. It is enough that I have lost the respect of a man whose good opinion is worth having, for you. I will not aid you further. If you have not profited by the terrible lesson you have received, the sooner you and Reggie separate the better for him; and I shall do nothing to hinder it.”

“You cross, disagreeable child!” exclaimed her ladyship cheerfully. “You don’t suppose I shall get into another scrape in a hurry, do you?”

“I don’t know. You have such terrible vanity, Pauline——”

“Did you ever know a woman yet who had not? I really like Reggie immensely, but he has entirely got out of the way of paying compliments, and making himself agreeable; and, really, it is quite necessary to go into the world to hear that one is pretty. Before I have been shut up three days with my husband at Teignmouth I feel like an unmitigated fright.”

“Would you have him always flattering you?”

“Well, no, not exactly, because I should want a little sleep. Still, it is the sort of thing one cannot easily have too much of.”

Lady Gwendolyn looked at her with ill-concealed contempt; and, feeling that she might lose her temper and say more than she ought to say if she remained any longer, she wished her a curt good morning, and left the room.

She went down-stairs as softly as she could, being anxious, above all things, to escape the attention of Lady Lenox and her guests; but, as luck would have it, just as she reached the bottom of the stairs, the door of the breakfast-room suddenly opened, and she found herself face to face with the gay Irish widow, Mrs. O’Hara.

CHAPTER VIII.

PAULINE’S TRIUMPH.

Mrs. O’Hara was about the last person Lady Gwendolyn would have cared to meet; moreover, she knew her to be a frivolous, pleasure-seeking woman, whose influence would be very bad for Lady Teignmouth.

Hitherto Pauline had professed to dislike the Irish widow, but finding themselves together in a country house, they were sure to do one of two things, either quarrel desperately, or strike up a violent friendship. And Gwendolyn, who had her brother’s honor and happiness so much at heart, knew that this latter would be fatal, indeed.

She stepped back and bowed coldly, but Mrs. O’Hara was not to be repressed. She held out her hand with great cordiality.

“I am so delighted to meet you again, dear Lady Gwendolyn. I hear you were quite the belle of last night’s ball. I meant to be here myself, but I provokingly missed the train at Carlisle, and had to wait there six hours, so that I am just a day after the fair. I find that Lady Teignmouth is staying here,” she added, without giving herself time to take breath, “and I am so delighted! George Belmont always praises her so much, I am quite anxious to improve our acquaintance.”

Lady Gwendolyn shivered convulsively.

“Mr. Belmont is a friend of yours, then?” she asked faintly.

“He is only my brother, but we are excellent friends, which is rather rare among near relatives. He has just come into a nice little property in Ireland, and I hope he will take a wife and settle down. I don’t mind telling you, he has knocked about the world a good deal in his time, and the money was very acceptable; and, what do you think?” she went on impulsively; “directly he heard of his uncle’s death, he promised to settle a little matter that he knew was bothering me a good deal.”

Lady Gwendolyn had not much sympathy, as a rule, with people who confided in the first comer; still, she could not help feeling for Mrs. O’Hara at this moment, and sympathizing with the tears of grateful feeling in her big black eyes.

Mr. Belmont might not be a very estimable man, but he had been kind to his sister, evidently; and she must needs grieve for him indeed when she learned the manner of his death, which would be worse to bear than the death itself.

She had half a mind to give her a hint that would prepare her for what was coming, and was trying to pick out words that would be a warning and not a revelation, when Mrs. O’Hara caught sight of a masculine figure at the end of the hall, and darted off precipitately. Her bold laugh followed Lady Gwendolyn into the garden and sharpened her mood. Somehow, she thought now that Mrs. O’Hara would get over her trouble very easily, and only hoped it would take her away from Bridgton Hall before she had had time to do any mischief.

She felt so weary and sick at heart she could have sat down in the hedge and let all the winds of heaven beat upon her, if she could only feel sure that they would beat this miserable life out of her, and give her rest.

“For the world is such a cruel, unsatisfactory place,” she said to herself, in the impatience of a first grief. “To live is to suffer, and, therefore, it were better to die.”

No doubt if she had felt the chill hand grasping her, she would have urged a very different prayer; but Gwendolyn had never known sorrow before, and the pressure of the wound irritated her. She would have given up all the promise of the future to be rid of her present pain.

Meanwhile, Lady Teignmouth rang for her maid.

“Do you know where the post-office at Bridgton is?” she asked.

Clémentine could not say that she did.

“Anyhow, it will be easy enough to find out,” continued her mistress. “Put on your bonnet as quickly as possible, Clémentine, and take this telegram there. You can write English well now, but must be careful that your letters are clear and distinct.”

“And am I to wait for an answer,” inquired the French woman naïvely.

“Certainly not. But read the message over to me, that I may be sure you understand it.”

Clémentine began in a singsong voice:

“You are wanted here on urgent business. Come directly you receive my telegram.”

“That will do. Mind your spelling,” was her ladyship’s comment. “Now you can go.”

Lord Teignmouth was breakfasting at his club in luxurious bachelor ease when his wife’s message reached him, and he uttered an exclamation of annoyance and surprise.

“How confoundedly unfortunate! And I dare say it is only some fad of Pauline’s, after all. She likes to have men running after her. I think I’ll telegraph back that I am particularly engaged, and can’t leave town.”

Then he suddenly recollected that with all Lady Teignmouth’s caprices, she had never sent for him in this way before, and he at once decided to go. He telegraphed back to this effect, then finished his breakfast as quickly as he could, and in less than an hour was on his way to Bridgton.

Pauline had calculated about the time he would reach the station, and had gone there to meet him, like a dutiful and affectionate wife.

“Dear Reggie, how very kind of you!” she exclaimed, her face in a glitter of smiles. “I never expected you at all.”

“Then you did not come to meet me, Pauline?”

“Of course I did, you foolish fellow! The mere chance that you would come was enough to rouse my wifely zeal. Do you know why I wanted you?” she added, as she took his arm, and led him out of the station into the quiet lanes.

“I haven’t the faintest idea.”

“No? Then I will tell you. I want you to take me away from Bridgton immediately.”

“But, my dear Pauline, you came here without me, and could, therefore, leave here without me, surely.”

“You don’t evidently know Lady Lenox. She has made up her party, and won’t hear of any one deserting, as she calls it. I talked till I was tired, and then it suddenly struck me to telegraph for you, and make believe you had come on purpose to fetch me.”

“But how is it you are tired of Bridgton already?”

“I don’t like to tell you, Reggie. You know how I hate to give anybody pain.”

“Pshaw!” he said, coloring a little. “Make a clean breast of it while you are about it. Have you and Lady Lenox quarreled?”

“Certainly not.”

“Then you have had disagreeables with one of the visitors.”

“No; everybody had been charming, and shown me so much kindness and sympathy in my trouble.”

“What trouble? I do wish you would not try to mystify me, Pauline. You know I was never good at riddles. I suppose your pug is dead, or you have found your first gray hair——”

“Oh, Reggie! don’t talk like that; you make me feel dreadfully,” she interrupted. “I may have seemed frivolous when all things went well; but I assure you I can suffer with you, and for you now.”

He dropped her arm, and turned, and stared at her.

“What do you mean?”

“Would you rather I told you the truth, Reggie?”

“That is what I have been begging you to do for the last half-hour,” he answered impatiently. “But you seem to enjoy piling up the agony. I suppose the long and short of it is that Gwen is dangerously ill.”

“She was perfectly well three or four hours ago. No; it is not that sort of trouble. Reggie. Gwen has disgraced us cruelly.”

Lord Teignmouth started violently, and his face grew white to the lips.

“I will not believe it,” he said. “You never liked her, Pauline, and are exaggerating a small imprudence into a crime. I am sure she would be able to clear herself at once, if she knew of what she was accused.”

“Then give her the chance,” answered his wife coldly.

And she told him the miserable story of Mr. Belmont’s death, unfalteringly asseverating that the unfortunate man had come to Turoy on Lady Gwendolyn’s account.

“They had a meeting in the wood the very night of his death, as some of the people hereabout can testify; and, of course, his sudden and mysterious fate has caused a great sensation. No one could suspect Gwendolyn of anything but an imprudence, as you say; but it’s the sort of imprudence that ruins a woman’s reputation, I am afraid. My own opinion is that Colonel Dacre followed Mr. Belmont to Turoy, and, finding him to be a successful rival, determined to get him out of the way. But this is pure conjecture, and nothing of the sort came out at the inquest.”

“Then there has been an inquest?” inquired Lord Teignmouth, who felt as if the ground were giving way beneath his feet.

“Oh, yes! and Gwendolyn gave her evidence with great dignity and propriety—she was sure to do that, you know. The inquest took place at four o’clock, having been delayed by the post-mortem examination, and it was proved that the unfortunate man died of poison, but by whom administered there was no evidence to show, and they gave an open verdict.”

Lord Teignmouth put his hand confusedly to his head. He was a man of sensitive honor, and the thought that his high-bred, beautiful sister had been mixed up in a painful story, that would soon be telegraphed from one end of England to the other, made him furious. Moreover, Mr. Belmont had always been looked upon as an adventurer, and careful people hardly cared to have him at their parties. Mrs. O’Hara herself had never acknowledged the relationship between them until her brother had come into a fortune, when he would have been useful, no doubt.

He turned to his wife, and spoke with angry decision:

“You did quite right to send for me. I would not have you remain in this neighborhood another day on any account. I shall go and see Gwendolyn, and tell her that my house is shut to her for the future, and she must make a home elsewhere. The only thing would be for her to marry, if she could find any idiot to take her. Anyhow, I am not going to have her name mixed up with yours. Thank Heaven she is my sister, and not my wife!”

“Thank Heaven, indeed!” she murmured, resting her dimpled chin on his shoulder, with a movement full of the most seductive grace. “But you know that, with all my faults, Reggie, I am not capable of that?”

“I begin to suspect all women,” he said gloomily. “Gwen and I were everything to each other in the days gone by, and I thought her so innocent and upright. If any one had dared to tell me she was carrying on a secret intrigue I would have knocked him down if he had been a man, so sure should I have felt that he lied miserably. But I suppose there is no doubting the fact now.”

Lady Teignmouth shook her head.

“Lady Gwendolyn denied it, of course; she was almost justified in trying to save her reputation by a falsehood, it seems to me.”

“There should have been no need for the falsehood,” responded Lord Teignmouth sternly.

“Yes, but if we all did exactly what was right, dear, what a delightful world this would be,” said the countess, with the sweetest indulgence. “I always feel myself that having so many failings of my own I ought to make allowances for others. Gwen is but young yet, and was led away. I have heard of Mr. Belmont as a man of extraordinary fascination.”

“What, then? Gwendolyn was not a raw schoolgirl, to be subjugated by the first handsome mustache she saw.”

“Oh, no; but, no doubt, poor darling, she became attached to Mr. Belmont. Indeed, I have felt sure for the last year that she had something on her mind, and I have tried to persuade her to confide in me, but she always repelled me. I wish she had, now, for, as a sensible girl, she would have given up Mr. Belmont at once if she had known how thoroughly worthless he was.”

“I don’t see any sign of her sense in this miserable business,” replied Lord Teignmouth, who looked harassed and dejected. “But we had better get on, Pauline; there are your things to pack, and I know of old what a long process that is.”

“Everything is packed,” replied his wife. “I felt sure you would take me away, and so I made my preparations accordingly. And, do you know, if we miss the eight-o’clock train it will be impossible for us to get away to-night?”

“Then we will stay at an inn, Pauline. I am determined you shall not be exposed to any unpleasant remarks at Lady Lenox’s. Moreover, I want to get to the other side of the Channel as quickly as possible, and hide my diminished head.”

“Look here, Reggie, dear,” she said, as if the idea had only just occurred to her; “supposing you write to Gwendolyn.”

“I would rather tell her my mind.”

“Nonsense!” she answered coaxingly; “it would be so much better to do as I say. You are both quick-tempered, and will make a scene between you, and, surely, there will be nothing gained by that. Come, Reggie, do listen to reason. It would distress you, I am sure, to accuse Gwendolyn to her face, and yet, of course, she must know the truth. Write her a decided letter, and as you will be leaving England at once, she will not be able to answer it, and then you will be spared all annoyance.”

“I would rather see her,” persisted Lord Teignmouth.

“What could you say to her if you did? She is perfectly independent, and has a right to meet twenty men in Turoy wood, if she likes.”

“And kill them afterward, I suppose?”

“Oh! do hush, Reggie; it is dreadfully imprudent to talk in this way out of doors, where you might be overheard.”

“What does that matter? Do you suppose we shall be able to hide our troubles from the world?”

“Impossible, of course; but it is no use precipitating matters. We shall have a few hours’ start of scandal if we keep quiet, and I do want to be the other side of the Channel when the morning papers begin to circulate.”

“It will be of no use, Pauline,” he answered, more gently than he had yet spoken to her. “Wherever we go they will follow and dodge us, and we shall be sure to meet heaps of people who will think it kind to condole with us. I am afraid I shall behave like a bear if they do.”

“Then let us return to Teignmouth, dear.”

“It would be still worse there. We should have to receive our neighbors as usual if they called, and they all know Gwendolyn so well.”

“Only that friends would naturally be more considerate than mere acquaintances.”

“Surely, you would rather go abroad, Pauline,” he said, looking at her with some surprise.

“Infinitely, Reggie; but I wished to do what would comfort you most. Only that I want you, as a special favor, to promise that you will make no effort to see Gwendolyn.”

“Why?”

“Because you are both proud and passionate, and may speak words in the heat of argument that will make it impossible you should ever be friends again; and I do not see why you should not forgive Gwendolyn later, supposing she made a decent marriage, and showed by her conduct that she really regretted the past.”

“You forget, Pauline, that some people will always believe that she killed Belmont to hide her indiscretion.”

“Oh! no, dear, you torture yourself unnecessarily. I am sure nobody will ever believe that; it is so obviously the deed of a rival!”

“And Lawrence Dacre is here, you say?”

“Yes; he arrived the same night that Gwendolyn did, and put up at the village inn.”

“My sister, and my friend—two out of the three people I loved best in the world,” he murmured. “And my wife may be as false as they, for all I know! It is enough to make me wish I had never been born!”

Pauline caught the muttered words, and pressed closer against his arm, her face uplifted to his.

“You must not suspect me, Reggie; I will not have it! I have been a careless wife, I am afraid, because—because,” very softly, “I thought you cared for Gwendolyn more than you cared for me, and that discouraged me; but she cannot come between us now, and I mean to make you so happy! Will you try and forget all these miseries, for my sake?”

All men are weak when they get into the hands of a clever, unscrupulous woman; and Reginald St. Maur was so loyal, that his wife must needs have a very tender hold upon his affections, if only because she was his wife, and he had wooed and won her in his youth. It is true that a coldness had grown up between them of late years; but he had always been ready to welcome her back into his heart, and now that Gwendolyn had failed him so cruelly, Pauline was his one last hope.

He drew her to him, and kissed her thrice on the lips.

“Try and make me forget,” he said, “and I will bless you all my life.”

“Will you leave everything to me?” she asked, as she rested her still beautiful face on his shoulder and smiled up into his eyes.

“Gladly—thankfully, my love.”

“Very well, then, come into my room and write to Gwendolyn, while I bid Lady Lenox adieu, and make the last arrangements for our journey. I only want to save you pain, my dearest; and, indeed—indeed, it is best.”

He followed her passively into the house, and up-stairs. Gently coercing him into a chair, she brought writing materials, placed a pen between his fingers, and then, stooping forward, whispered between two kisses:

“Do your duty, but do it gently; for whatever her blame may be, you are the children of one mother, and were all in all to each other once.”

“Thank you for the reminder,” he answered gravely; and then she rustled away, and left him to his painful task.

When she returned, half an hour later, the letter lay on the desk ready to go, and, as if she feared he might draw back even yet, she caught it up and rang at once for Clémentine.

“Put that carefully in the letter-bag,” she said, when the woman answered the summons; “and then come and put on my cloak.”

“Must I see Lady Lenox?” her husband asked, when they were alone once more.

“You need not; she quite understands and sympathizes with you. They are just going to sit down to dinner, and we shall go away quietly and comfortably, and catch the eight-o’clock train. You see, dearest, I am not altogether incapable if I am left to myself.”

“I never thought you were, my love,” he answered; and paid her such a pretty conjugal compliment that Pauline began to think husbands were not such disagreeable creatures, after all, if properly managed.

Lady Gwendolyn had passed a miserable night, only to close her eyes to dream of the inquest, and suffer over again the humiliation of feeling herself suspected, not of actual murder, perhaps, but of having contributed in some way to the wretched man’s doom. Through Colonel Dacre’s stern gravity she had read the same cruel misconstruction, and yet he was so reticent, so careful not to compromise her in any way, she almost felt, too, as if he were a friend.

Anyhow, the reminiscent torture made her start up in her bed, again and again calling out that she could not bear it; and she was glad when old Hannah came in to prepare her bath. She was so perfectly unsuspecting that when she found a letter on her breakfast-table later, and recognized Lord Teignmouth’s handwriting, she opened it eagerly, feeling as if it were a bright spot in her gloom.

But as she read, the color faded out of her face, and a startled, anguished look came into her eyes.

“Even he forsakes me,” she murmured, in a stifled voice; and, sinking down beside the couch, she buried her face in her hands and wept violently, passionately, until the very strength of her emotion exhausted her, and she lay still, wondering in her infinite desolation what she had ever done that fate should be so hard upon her.

The answer came at last:

“You set up an idol and worshiped it; and in fleeing from temptation a worse chance has overtaken you. Pray, unhappy woman; it is your only hope. The whole world has forsaken you, even your own kin; and, above all, the woman whom you served yesterday by your silence, and whose blame you bore for your brother’s sake. You have no kindred, or friends; you stand alone; and, therefore, need to stand firm, with your head well raised; but how will you bear this terrible solitude for all your pride?”

There was no answer to this question, unless she heard it in the storm—voices that went moaning round the house. A sudden peal of thunder shook the roof; the rain came plashing down; and Gwendolyn, poor coward! hid her face again, and stopped her ears.

She did not, therefore, either see or hear any one approach, until a warm, strong hand touched hers diffidently; and she lifted her head to let these tender words thrill through and through her:

“My darling! love has become my master; and I cannot live without you, as I told you before, so I have come to claim you for my very own!”

CHAPTER IX.

ALL FOR LOVE.

Lady Gwendolyn was too much overcome at this sudden apparition. She could not speak for a moment; and, taking her silence for encouragement, Lawrence Dacre knelt down beside her, and lifted the hand he still held to his lips.

“I have done with resistance,” he said; his eyes full of gloomy passion. “Whether you take me, or leave me, Gwendolyn, I belong to you—and you only now. These last few days I have done nothing but fight and struggle, until all the flesh has worn off my bones,” he added, with a grim laugh; “and I’ll make an end of it somehow. Do you hear me, child?”

“Yes, yes; go on,” she answered, scarcely knowing what she said.

“What more can I tell you? I should scare you, perhaps, if I let you see all the wild, burning passion in my heart, for your love compared to mine is

‘As moonlight unto sunlight,

And as water unto wine.’

But I will teach you better when you belong to me. I could not be satisfied with the lukewarm affections that most women are ready to bestow on any man who has proper notions with regard to settlements. I must find some expanse in my wife’s heart to the jealous, exclusive passion in my own, otherwise there would be no use in living, that I can see. I never cared much about the world, and am ready to relinquish all its so-called pleasures if you bid me; but, then, I must have the return my soul craves—something more precious to me than a crown and kingdom—your undivided love.”

His mellow voice made such pleasant music at her ear, that Lady Gwendolyn had made no effort to rouse herself so far; but when he ceased to speak, she lifted her haggard, tear-stained face, and said, with somber resignation:

“What is the use of picturing impossibilities? You know I could not marry you if I would.”

“Why not?”

“You forget that I know your secret.”

“Now, you must explain what you mean by my secret, Gwendolyn,” he said, with decision, as he lifted her on to the couch, and sat down beside her. “Twice you have thrown it in my teeth, and though I have tried hard to find out what you meant, I have been unable to do so. On my honor as a gentleman, I know nothing that need prevent our marriage.”