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This text has been proofread but is not guaranteed to be free from errors. Corrections to the original text have been left in place.
Title: A Mayfair Tragedy, volume II, an electronic edition
Author: Fraser, Alexander, Mrs.
Publisher: F. V. White & Co.
Place published: London
Date: 1894
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Front cover of the second volume of Fraser's A Mayfair Tragedy.A MAYFAIR TRAGEDY.A MAYFAIR TRAGEDY.A Novel.BY MRS. ALEXANDER FRASER, AUTHOR OF "THE NEW DUCHESS," "PURPLE AND FINE LINEN," "THE MATCH OF THE SEASON," "DAUGHTERS OF BELGRAVIA," "A LEADER OF SOCIETY," A FATAL PASSION," "A MODERN BRIDEGROOM," ETC., ETC."Alas! the love of woman, it is knownTo be a lovely and a fearful thing!"BYRON.IN THREE VOLUMES.
VOL. II.LONDONF. V. WHITE & CO.14, BEDFORD STREET, STRAND, W.C.1894.Copyright information for the second volume of Fraser's A Mayfair Tragedy.DEDICATION.TO MY REVIEWERS,
"Satire or sense, can Sporus feel,Who breaks a butterfly on a wheel?"1894.Table of contents for the second volume of Fraser's A Mayfair Tragedy.A MAYFAIR TRAGEDY.
 CHAPTER I.
LORD MELVILLE."For many loves are good to see,Mutable loves and loves perverse.""I TOOK a house yesterday, mamma, a lovely house in Curzon Street, Mayfair. Of course I only agreed to the rent the man asked, and left all the arrangements for papa to see to," Claire, says the day after her return from Town. She sits on the broad window-sill recklessly picking off the buds of a magnificent pink azalea, and looking bored to death. It is a bright, clear morning, but the brightness and

clearness, the flowers, the trees, all weary her to extinction.She detests still life. The desert of Sahara would be quite as acceptable to her as High Towers, with a paucity of the masculine element."I shall be so glad when May comes," she adds with an impatient sigh. "This place is so horribly dull and monotonous, that the days creep."Mrs. Delaval looks up at her. The weariness of the girl's face detracts from its beauty. Claire is pale--even to pallor--and there is a sullen droop of the mouth, which her mother has never seen before. Surely Claire is not losing her looks--if so, the prospect of her catching the best match of the season is problematical, and the woman feels her tower of ambition totter.

She wants to be mother-in-law to a peer above all things--it is the one thing that occupies her mind--and she falls at once to thinking over some plan to obviate the disaster of Claire "growing plain.""It is rather dull," she says after a long silence, during which the poor pink azalea is nearly divested of all its buds. "I wonder if your papa knows any nice men we could ask to stay here for a little while. He must have known some in the old days.""I daresay he did, but they would be grey-headed old buffers now! They would not amuse me!" the girl says with her innate selfishness.Mrs. Delaval smiles, as a thought suddenly strikes her."Perhaps he knows one or two young

men. Anyway, I'll speak to him about it."Which she carries out a little later."It's very quiet here, John. Of course, old folks like you and I don't mind it, but it's rather hard on Claire to be mewed up for months, with not a soul to speak to but her own family. She was looking quite miserable this morning.""Cis and Bell are as happy as queens," the Honourable John replies. "They never find it dull, especially now when the weather is fine, and the place looking beautiful. Claire thinks too much of the world, the flesh and the Devil, I am afraid. Still, if she is looking miserable, we must try and make it more cheerful for her. Why don't you ask the Rector and his wife to dinner?""The Rector and his wife! Good gracious! What curious notions you have. Could such people possibly cheer up a young girl? It's young men girls care about, not a couple of old fogies.""Well, there's the curate. Percival is a very intelligent fellow--and a bachelor!""Claire hates the sight of him, with his long nose and long legs, and lantern jaws, and his horrid hat! John! I have an idea!""Really!" he says, with a significant smile."Now, that's downright mean of you," she flares angrily. You would no more have insinuated that I was wanting in ideas than flown, before you came in for that paltry five thousand a year. You were mighty civil when I held the purse-strings.""Victoria! I beg of you to refrain

from such remarks. Someone will overhear them, and I don't wish anyone to think. I did not marry in my own class! I am ready to listen while you tell me what your idea is."She is furious at his rebuke, given though it is in his quiet, gentlemanly way, but she keeps back the angry words, anxious to have the "idea" carried out."I was going to say that you might ask Lord Melville to come and pay us a visit. I daresay he would like to see the old home again.""In the hands of strangers! I doubt if he would. However, I'll ask him. He is a charming and honourable fellow, and I wouldn't ask any better companion for the girls--""Write at once. The flower show at

Exeter is in another week, and Claire would make a great stir amongst the country people, if she had a lord to escort her about.""County people, you mean, not country people," he corrects gently. "You must try and guard yourself from little mistakes of that sort, my dear Victoria, especially before Melville. He has, no doubt, a sensitive ear, and you would not like his mother, the countess, to hear that her successor is not--well, not quite as correct in her manners and sayings, as she is.""Claire," Mrs. Delaval says to her daughter a day or two after, "your papa has asked a young man down, and he's coming.""Who is it?""Lord Melville!"CHAPTER II.
THE DAWN OF ANOTHER LOVE."The dust of many strange
desiresLies deep between us--in our eyes,Dead smoke of perishable firesThicken--a fume in air and skies,A steam of sighs."NO wonder that Claire, with her peculiar temperament, has found it dreadfully depressing. High Towers, with all its beauty and bloom, is but a howling wilderness, for, after all, what would Paradise have been without its Adam? There is not a sign of the genus homo around, save the obnoxious curate, with his long nose and long legs, not an eligible, or even a detrimental, on whom she can keep her hand in for a game of flirtation.This day, however, there comes manna in the desert.It is at breakfast that the Honourable John announces the advent of Lord Melville during the afternoon, adding that the poor young fellow is glad to visit once more the old home in which he first saw the light, and the loss of which has been the most poignant grief in his life.To Cecil and Bell the news is nil. They are not much in the habit of seeing visitors at High Towers, but Claire suddenly recovers from her weary, listless condition. The pink colour flashes back into her cheek, animation shines in her eyes, and furtive smiles replace the sullen droop of the mouth which had caused her mother so much alarm.Going upstairs, she carefully arranges

the soft, fluffy hair that clusters on her forehead like burnished sunbeams, and slips on a dark violet frock and a silver snake, with jewelled eyes, round her slender waist.Cecil and Bell are out of the house and away in the woods, with the dogs racing and frisking around them, and the unusual event of an arrival-right out of their heads.Claire stands by the window in her own room, her eyes fixed on vacancy, but her heart beating a little fast, when her mother sails in. She has robed herself in all the magnificence she could find--a trailing dress of stiff mauve moiré, garnished with white lace--the voluminous sleeves of the day and a very high collar, giving her short, square-built figure an appearance that takes Claire's breath away.She must prevent this astounding mixture of costly garments and nature's most unattractive handiwork, assisting at the reception of the visitor, or he will surely flee."Mamma, will you do me a great, great favour?" she asks in her softest, sweetest tone. "Will you pretend you are ill, or something, and not go downstairs today?""Not go downstairs! But Lord Melville is coming, and who's to receive him but the mistress of the house? I must go down.""Very well! then make my excuses to him, please. I shall not leave my room while he is here," Claire says quietly, but determinedly."Not see him at all? Why, he was

asked for you. Your papa will be furious at your rudeness; and, Claire, don't be obstinate, for I have projects for the future, projects which your temper will destroy.""If you go down today I won't! It's no use asking me to do so, for I have made up my mind," the girl almost hisses in her anger.Mrs. Delaval looks at her and knows who is master at once."I won't go down," she exclaims in a loud voice, and flouncing out of the room, she bangs the door."Providence be thanked!" Claire ejaculates. "If that guy had walked into the room, the man would have stamped us all as vulgar-awful--unbearable. She's afraid of me, and she won't go down, so I hope his first impression will be nice--but, good

gracious! if it should be a Caliban, a creature that even amidst the dulness of this place, no height of imagination can invest with gifts either mental or personal!--a common-place man, and not the chic, irresistible creature I am waiting to see!"An hour after she walks into the drawing-room, and sees a tall man with a muscular yet svelte figure, and a handsome face of the Saxon type. She takes in at a glance that he has straight features, rather a massive jowl, a firm-set mouth, and grave, deep blue eyes, and that his hair and moustache are of a medium brown, but she takes in at a glance also that this is the man who looked so fixedly at her the evening of her first tryst with Ferrari in the Pare at Brussels.Suppose he should recognise her! She is thankful that she is prepared for it!Lord Melville is standing at the large bay window, evidently absorbed in the prospect, which is loveliest from this point of view. A high knoll of emerald turf rises before the house, and on it stands a huge group of fine elms, the foliage waving to and fro slowly in the wind, like so many monster pennons. The sky is intensely clear and blue, and the spring sunshine is almost as bright as if summer had come.He turns with a little start as Claire goes noiselessly up and stands by his side.He has been all over the world, and in Europe, Asia, Africa and America, he has never seen a more beautiful face. Admiration strikes him dumb for a minute."There is no place more lovely than High Towers," she says softly."Lovely indeed," he answers, and the expression of his handsome face shows that the exclamation has more to do with her than High Towers.Claire absolutely blushes-- it is only a faint, fitful blush, a sort of rose-petal hue, but it enhances her beauty if possible.She stands silent beside him--looking out.  It is growing towards evening, and the sky is broken into one flush of colour--crimson and golden, the deep purplish red and the soft pale green of the trees mingle, and mass their sumptuous foliage together so richly that a small lake in front, as it welters under the primrose light, seems filtering through broken jewels and sands of gold."I have never seen anything so beautiful!" Lord Melville says, turning slowly

from the contemplation of Claire's face to the landscape."And yet summer is the happiest time for scenery, I think," she remarks, by way of saying something."It is worth coming across the sea to look at for even a moment," he says in a low voice, again falling to the perusal of her features, which are prettiest under excitement."I see you have not lost your love and your admiration for your old home!" she murmurs quite pathetically."I am glad to see it again by the side of dear old Delaval's daughter. I have always liked him, and shall never forget his kindliness towards me when my troubles began. I have never seen Mrs. Delaval, I think.""My mother is not well today, so she sent me down to do hostess. She is very kind and nice to me, but my father has always had my heart. He is very dependent on me, for my sister and a poor cousin who resides with us are almost in the schoolroom. I am afraid I don't make a very good companion for my father, I am so ignorant of the world and its ways.""Long may you continue so," he replies, with another lingering glance at the fair Circean face, so bewildering, in its perfection and bloom and brightness, to men's eyes that they lose their heads in looking at it, whether they are wise men or fools."Where have I seen this face before?"This is the query that he has asked himself

 a dozen times in this short while, but he cannot remember. He has seen it somewhere--probably in his dreams, he decides at last."Have you not travelled at all? Surely other places than Devonshire have had the fortune of having you amongst them?""No, I cannot say I am a travelled person, but I am so glad you like countrified, ignorant girls!" she cries, with a little laugh that rings out musically." The people who have called on us here seem shocked at my want of savoir faire. But I ought not to speak so frankly to a stranger!""Not a stranger, surely. Anyone your father has known a long time, and likes, can hardly be looked on as a stranger by his child."She glances up at him with big grey eyes--shyly, softly, yet steadily.How magnificent her eyes are! Melville feels a curious thrill run through him as he meets their gaze."May I look on you as an old friend then, though we have only known one another half an-hour? I--I want a friend so much!"Lord Melville's heart flutters. Beauty, evidently friendless and pleading, is before him, and, like all firm, strong men, he loves nothing so much as utter feebleness and dependence in women."Of course, if you will permit me to be one," he says fervently."If I permit! I shall only be too proud--too pleased--"The man colours through his fair skin.Her words are conventional enough--conventional even to the ears of a man whose notions of what young misses should be are strict, but there is something--something more felt than can be described in her tone and manner that makes his blood leap."Let me seal our compact of friendship at once!" he cries, almost as shyly and diffidently as a schoolboy, and stooping he presses his lips to the snow-flake of a hand with taper fingers that lies so temptingly on the sill. Then he looks up, very much ashamed of his impetuosity--very much afraid of reproof.But Claire smiles.There are women who practise smiling before their mirror. There is a mocking smile, an angelic smile, a pitiful smile and

a bewildering smile that savours little of Heaven but immensely of earth.This last is the smile that Claire's peculiar temperament prompts her to give, but she nips the inclination in the bud, and treats him to the frank, candid, ingenuous smile of innocence and propriety, and then she turns shyly away, as if ashamed of allowing her facial muscles full play."This is not a very cheerful house, Lord Melville. Papa is generally out riding or farming all day, mamma stays a good deal upstairs, and I have the drawing-room mostly to myself," Claire announces in a low voice, as she leans against the casement. The lavish tangles of ivy hang over her head, enframing it as a picture. The prim-rose light touches up the bronze-flecked

hair, the fair delicate skin has no flaw, the tints of the face are alabaster in purity, save just the pink of summer roses that lies on her rounded cheek.Claire's eyes are hidden by thickly-fringed, snow-white lids, and the very contact of the purple folds of her smart frock, made in the latest fashion, and the fragrance that sweeps from her tresses fascinates him."But such as our life is, you are most welcome to come when you like and stay as long as you like. We haven't any inducement to offer--no society--""But your own," he breaks in eagerly, "and already--already"--his  voice grows lower and softer--"please, Miss Delaval, don't think me impertinent when I say I want no other!"Claire smiles again, and this time it is the bewildering smile--of the earth earthy--a dozen little dimples show up on her cheeks and chin. She has been hankering after change and excitement, and lo!--could change and excitement have come in pleasanter or more attractive form? Handsome, young, evidently impressionable, worthy of conquest--what greater boon could the fates have sent?She holds out her hand with the impulsiveness of a child."And I want someone to talk to, to sing to, to like!" she says, with charming naiveté.Melville takes the proffered fingers willingly, and they linger in his clasp.As it had been with Marco Ferrari in

Brussels, so it is with Alan, Lord Melville, now--Venus Victrix!"Have you seen the environs of High Towers?" he asks. "Do you ride much, Miss Delaval?""Yes, but lately I haven't done so. Somehow I have had no spirit for anything.""Let us go for a long ride tomorrow. I can show you half-a dozen views which perhaps you have never noticed, but which are worth seeing--will you come?""Yes!"She says it rather absently. Already a new feeling has begun to dawn in her fickle breast for this man, who has seemed to drop, as it were, into her path just to save her from a slough of despond.It is hardly a passion yet, but only a

tiny bud of the blossom of forbidden fruit--which every feeling of faith and honour and rectitude should deter her from fostering into growth. Already her oath is forgotten, when, clinging to her Italian lover, she had sworn to be true to him all her life. Already she pushes aside the thought of that marriage ceremony in the church at Brussels. There is no more glamour for her in Ferrari's handsome face, no more tender remembrance of his passionate love.The only feeling she has is scorn for herself--for the low taste she had indulged in, when she allowed a singing-master to touch her lips and call her "wife.""But he said it was an informal marriage," she repeats over and over again. "Thank Heaven for that!"This stranger, this English peer, with a grand-sounding name and a long line of ancestors, is handsome too, with his grave, deep blue eyes and close, crisp, brown hair, and Claire, who loves conquest, reads in the depths of these same deep blue eyes that she has found favour in his sight. She is clever, young as she is, in reading hearts too, and she sees that this man has a powerful but repressed nature, and that no woman has hitherto called into life all that he can feel.A bright warm colour surges over her face, a curious glow of pleasure fills her.Will she, Claire Delaval--not Claire Ferrari, as the singing-master had said--be the woman to bring a flush of passion to Lord Melville's cheek, to thrill his dormant pulses like wine?CHAPTER III.
"NOT GOOD-BYE, BUT AU REVOIR!""There was something the season
wanted,Though the ways and the woods smelt sweet,The breath of your lips that panted,The pulse of the grass at your feet,Your feet in the full grown grassesMoved soft as a weak wind blows,You passed me as April passes,With face made out of a rose."A SOUTH-WESTERLY wind with quite a summer balminess on its wings, and little feathery clouds chasing one another up above, High Towers in its spring garments of soft pale green, and the air laden with the fragrance of many pines. A glimpse can be caught of the big marble fountain that stands before the house, and whose

waters plash monotonously over the nude shoulders of Dryads crowned with wreaths of acorn and oak leaves, from a lawn which lies at the extremity of the grounds, and here, in early morning, Cecil and Bluebell disport themselves at tennis."Game," cries Cecil. "It's no use for you to try and beat me, Bell, I am twice as good at tennis as you."Her head is well thrown back, her long hair, flecked with ruddy bronze but with a touch of gold in it as well, hangs carelessly to her little waist, and her face in its rich vivid tints, with the foliage of the evergreen behind it, looks just like a rare tropical flower as she smiles at Bell, who is perched on a rustic bench.Merry as a couple of children, they neither share nor care for the dangerous

pleasures and flirtations so dear to Claire's heart."Will you try me as your opponent?" cries a man's voice, a voice that is wonderfully pleasant in its ring.Cecil starts, and stands silent and shy--the bright colour flushing on her face, while Bell with big eyes stares in wonderment at the new comer.Lord Melville walks up to Cecil with a smile on his handsome mouth and holds out his hand."Are you vexed at my intrusion at this early hour, that you won't even bid me good-day?" he begins gaily. "If so, I shall regret the luck that made me saunter up to this part of the grounds."Not a word--blushes as plentiful as roses in summer or blackberries in autumn,

and the faintest shadow of a smile lurking in the corners of the prettiest of coral mouths--still not one word.He stands stock still-amazed--staring at his vis-à vis, a queer, puzzled expression creeping on his features."I think --I fancy that perhaps you have mistaken me for Claire," Cecil says at last. "If it is Lord Melville, this is the first time he and I have met.""I beg your pardon, but the resemblance is most extraordinary, yet when I look at you steadily there is a difference, which is felt rather than seen. Now that I have broken in so suddenly on your seclusion--show that you forgive me by having a game."He lifts his eyes to her face again.Cecil's hat has fallen half off, and her

lovely hair ripples in light waving masses off her fair low forehead, her large eyes--exactly the same colour as Claire's--are as pure and limpid as a little child's. There is certainly an innocent guileless look on her face that her double does not possess."The other girl is like the sun, but this one's face is moonlight--so soft and tender," he decrees in his own mind. "There is nothing garish or meretricious about this one. Miss Delaval has dash and brilliancy, chic, and lots of self-possession, a sort of girl to take a fellow by storm whether he will or not--but this little thing is pure, womanly, good, just the kind to steal into a man's heart and keep there!"Cecil's laugh interrupts his soliloquy."See, Bell--I am going to win again! Why, where is she?"Lord Melville looks round."There, behind the trunk of that old tree, if you mean the little creature that looks like a sprite.""She is a little angel!" Cecil says warmly."I suppose you love her, and love makes all creatures angels, though I really believe that angels do exist on the earth."The words break from him on the spur of the moment, there is not a spark of presumption or flattery in them, and he is sorry for his speech when he sees how the fair face flushes. She averts her head and moves a few paces off, leaving him angry with himself.Please don't pay her compliments," whispers a clear bird-like voice in his ear. "Cis hates compliments."He turns round and looks at the speaker, who simply nods her head in a quaint fashion.We must go in, Bell," Cecil says, coming. back. "I am tired of playing tennis, and you have your music lesson at ten.""Have I been so unfortunate as to drive you away?" Lord Melville asks penitently, watching with grave eyes the shadow on the girl's forehead, and rather a sad, wistful expression that lurks in her eyes. "I have, my punishment cannot be too severe."Cecil looks up and meets his glance and she smiles. It comes just like a little flash

of sunlight this smile--so warm and so pleasant to him."I was silly--please forgive me," she says gently."Why didn't you appear at all yesterday?" he asks abruptly."I cannot tell you why--at least, not yet."He looks at her again--how strange she should say this. Is there any mystery in the Delaval ménage? It begins to excite his curiosity and even to trouble him a little."But you will join the family circle today?""No--I am afraid I cannot."A sudden thought flashes across his mind. This is the "poor" cousin whom Claire had mentioned--so poor and

dependent that she is not thought good enough by the Delavals to take her meals with them. His very soul revolts against Mrs. Delaval at once. He has heard that she is a vulgar, ill-bred person, and that sort always give themselves airs and graces."Don't you ever show yourself at dinner, eh?""Oh, yes.""Then it is I whom you wish to avoid!--have you heard any ill of me?""No! oh, no! I have heard no ill of you, and Uncle John likes you so much that my thoughts of you have been pleasant ones.""You have thought of me, then?" he asks in surprise."Could I help thinking of you--at High

Towers--your old home? Oh, Lord Melville, I have felt for you so much. How miserable you must feel at strangers having this place--and it is so lovely too.""You think it lovely, then? And do you really like it?""I think I have learned to love it already."She could not have uttered words dearer than these to his ear. He loves High Towers, every stick and stone of it."So your uncle has spoken of me. He likes my dear mother, and extends the liking to me. He had a picture of me--have you seen it?""Yes, he gave it to--" she stops short--a hot, almost painful, blush burns on her cheek, and her pretty eyes are

quite hidden away from him now under her white sculpturesque lids."He gave it to--you?" he almost whispers, feeling perplexed by the drooping lids and flushed cheek."Yes!" she answers, looking at him now and speaking frankly. "He gave it to me because it was like a picture that used to hang in the schoolroom of the old home where I lived with my father and mother--they are both dead now," she adds with tears starting in her eyes--and he feels his own grow misty in sympathy--"a desolate little orphan," he thinks."Was it a fancy picture?"A picture of--Bayard.""'Le chevalier sans peur et sans reproche.' May you find the souls are alike as well as the faces!"She does not answer--her lashes quiver, and he can see the quick rise and fall of her heart beneath her close-fitting bodice."But you must tell me why I am never to see you in the house," he persists."Won't you accept the fact without explanation?"She turns her sweet dove-like eyes upon him with a good deal of deprecation and entreaty in them, and he feels that he can scarcely press her farther, but she suddenly plucks up courage and speaks out frankly."You see, Bell and I are not out yet, and so Claire is the only one who sees visitors.""That is--that I am a schoolgirl, and Cis likes staying with me; besides, Claire would be very cross if Cis interfered with her!" Bell breaks out in childish candour.He looks graver than usual--the whole situation strikes him as rather unpleasant."But she--Miss Delaval seems so charming, so amiable.""You don't quite understand," Cecil begins."I can understand perfectly--one thing," he interrupts impatiently. "I understand that if there is any unpleasantness, you are not to blame.""I am blameless--please think so," she answers, as if his opinion--stranger as he is--is something to her. And the little unconscious flattery her voice conveys strikes hint pleasantly."I am sure of it, I could stake my life, although I have only known you some half-an-hour, that you never did harm in your life to anyone. I am a bit of a favourite

with Mr. Delaval, and who knows but I might have some influence over his eldest daughter? Shall I use it in your behalf?""No! Please don't mention having seen us here--and I would rather no one interfered between Claire and myself."But I must and will see you again. Where can it be, if not in the house?" he cries determinedly.He is a man of powerful feelings and strong resolution, and now it seems to him quite impossible to let the girl drift out of his life as suddenly as she has come into it."I do not see how," she replies in rather a hopeless tone."But I will, unless you hate me for having bored you all this time.""Hate you!"Her eyes widen and involuntarily she holds out her hand--such a tiny snow-flake of a hand, then she quickly draws it back, and, to conceal her embarrassment, begins to trace the turf with her tennis-bat.Lord Melville smiles slightly.He has gathered up a good store of experience about women in his knocking about the four quarters of the globe, and he understands her innocent, impulsive gesture better than most men of his class in this nineteenth century.He takes the little hand gently, without "with your leave" or "by your leave," but he does not attempt to kiss it, as he would have done on some occasions. Perhaps the pure flower-like face before him rebukes any feeling that might induce him

to--a caress that at any rate appears to him just now to be a sort of insolent presumption."Think of me kindly," he says in a very low voice, releasing her fingers, and there is a deal more tenderness in his accent then he is conscious of.Cecil moves away, but he follows her."Could you not come here again tomorrow morning?"And, considering about forty-five minutes would compass their acquaintance, there is genuine pleading in his question.Cecil starts a little.  In this serious earnest mood, how like he is to Bayard!"Yes, we will come tomorrow," she murmurs, but he hears her and his face grows radiant.Bell, seeing her cousin on the point of

leaving, jumps off her rustic perch, her mites of hands full of feathery ferns and scarlet berries.Lord Melville is not a shy man by any means. He is too much of a cosmopolitan to be retiring or diffident, though his manner has none of that quiet insolence that so many of the English aristocracy affect."You are coming here again tomorrow," he says, as if he had known her all her life. "Your name is Bluebell, isn't it? And it suits you exactly. You are just like a floweret, or a fairy. Shall you be glad to see me tomorrow?""If Cis is. See what tennis has done for her today. I call Cis my white lily always, but she looks like a queen of roses now."It is true. Cis has the loveliest colour, as if she fed on roses and milk. The thought of seeing this man, who is so like her beloved portrait of Bayard, has set her heart beating, and each throb it gives sends a glow to her cheek."I hope tomorrow will be fine," she says. "Good-bye."No--no--not good-bye, it is a word of ill omen--but au revoir. I shall watch the clouds anxiously."Then, lifting his hat, he saunters away into the old woods that have been his haunts in his boyhood.Meantime, the two girls walk hastily towards the house, and as they near the carriage-drive a horse canters down, and a long dark-green habit flaunts by. It is Claire--she has taken her favourite Arab

for exercise early, while she believes the guest to be fast asleep, so that her horse may not trouble her in the quiet afternoon ride arranged.She curbs in the animal and asks quite amiably:"Where have you been?""Into the woods," Cecil answers quietly:"Into the woods--that's rather indefinite, since it's all woods here," and Claire, ruffled at the short reply, strikes the Arab impatiently. He rears, plunges forward and dashes down the road."She will be killed!" Cecil cries in alarm."No fear, Cis. Claire will die a more glorious death; than a fall from horseback," Bell says in her quaint fashion. Claire is doomed to play an important part in

life, I know. A gipsy told her once she would be hanged! She has will and strength enough to do anything, I believe. Look at her now."It is quite true. Claire has a spirit of iron, and in a moment or two she has conquered the horse, and rides back slowly, her hat blown back, and her beautiful face wearing a satisfied smile.CHAPTER IV.
"HE SHALL LOVE ME SOME DAY.""Let this be said between us here,One love grows green--when one turns greyThis year knows nothing of last year,To-morrow has no more to sayTo yesterday."CLAIRE looks very still and statuesque, leaning against a superb Dresden cabinet in the drawing-room, with her long dark-green skirt sweeping far back on the velvet carpet, her magnificent bust and shoulders and slender waist wonderfully defined by the close-fitting habit, with the tiny cravat tied tightly at her white throat, and the smart little hat poised just rightly on her head, to the small gauntleted hands that

toy rather nervously with a jewelled riding whip--she is exquisite and complete.Lord Melville pauses a moment at the door of the room to take in the charming picture. Claire notes it all--the sudden pause, the glance of intense admiration, and she blesses the beauty that Ovid calls a favour bestowed by the gods, while Melville forgets that beauty is a short-lived tyranny and a silent cheat."So I find you ready and waiting for me full five minutes before the appointed time. The afternoon is so lovely, that I lingered at my window, taking in all the sweet scents that the air is filled with today."Just at this moment a figure sails in--a short, Dutch-built figure, gorgeously apparelled, with a fragment of lace, fashioned

into a huge butterfly, perched jauntily on a head of black hair."How do you do, my lord?" Mrs. Delaval says, with a little smirk that enhances her plainness of feature, and putting out a fat hand covered with rings. "I trust your lordship is quite well and your mother the same. Poor thing, I have felt for her so very much, you know. It must be so dreadful to be poor, and perhaps to live in lodgings. I have lived in lodgings myself (temporary difficulties, you know), and I felt so ashamed when my father-in-law, the Right Honourable the Earl --came to see us. We are all proud to see you here. I hope you slept comfortable last night; I told my girl here to see that there was a bath in your room, and every-thing nice. We shall be glad to take in

your mother for a day or two. Perhaps she would like to see High Towers as it is--very different, I fancy, to what it was."She pauses for breath, while Claire, ready to sink through the floor, is dumb."Thank you for your kind reception, Mrs. Delaval," Lord Melville answers courteously. "My room had a bath in it, and I slept like the Seven sleepers.""Indeed, my lord! I have not been in London much lately, and am not up in the habits of the Town people. They are in your class, I suppose, or you wouldn't know about their domestic arrangements!"He cannot suppress a smile, but puts up his handkerchief to his face to hide the rudeness."Here are the horses," breaks in Claire.

"We had better start, in case the day turns."Before you go, my lord, I just want to say again how pleased and proud we are at having one of the nobility under our roof. It's an honour I trust that will be repeated, and if you would like to bring the old lady down with you next time, she shall have the best of everything that a large income like ours can purchase!""Thanks!" and Claire sees now by his face how the intense vulgarity and ill-breeding of her mother revolts him."Come," she says; "my horse won't stand quiet very long.""I hope he has no real vice," Melville says, giving the animal a keen glance."Oh, no. I gave him a sharp gallop this morning, and I daresay he will be amiable

enough. Don't you think even horses and dogs recognise a master spirit?" she asks laughingly."Some men do I know, but, without any claim to a tyrannical disposition, I do not believe any woman would ever master me except by fair means," he answers, with a significant glance at her face."He is a slave to good looks," Claire thinks, and the idea pleases her."Now then, Satan," she says, pulling at the curb, for she has no objection to a second exhibition of the animal's mettle; "Now then!"He gives a plunge, throws back his head viciously, and then stands as "meek as a lamb.""What an unpleasant name he has," Lord Melville observes quietly.  "Do you

know I hardly like the sound of it from pretty red lips?""We will re-christen him if you like, in memory of our first ride together. What shall we call him; shall it be --Alan?"He catches her eye, and, in spite of himself, colours."Call him `Fickle,' it is a good name for an untrustworthy horse.""Fickle! I hate fickleness, but we'll call him so if you like. What's in a name? He is a beauty, isn't he?" and she caresses his neck coquettishly, and looks so pretty as she does so that Melville wishes the hackneyed wish that he was a glove on that hand, or even the steed, for the nonce.She puts her horse into an easy canter. It is a glorious day--a soft, bright day--the aromatic fragrance of the pines floats

on the wind --the last red berries of winter, blazoned like war banners, wave to and fro, the foliage begins to grow as rich and lavish as the vestments of an eastern satrap.Through the dells and up the slopes the two ride side by side. When a picturesque curve or tempting road presents itself, they follow at random, laughing and talking, from the very exuberance of animal spirits produced by a good gallop in a clear crisp air.But through it all, anyone who had seen Melville at his game of tennis in the morning and saw him now, the cavalier of a beautiful girl, would have observed a difference--a difference too subtle to describe in words, but easy of detection all the same. With this girl, a girl beautiful

as a poet's dream, Melville, man of the world as he is, exerts all that is most brilliant yet most superficial in his nature. Compliments fall from his lips, and Claire drinks them in with greedy ears. He sees at a glance that she loves to be admired and flattered, and carries out her desire to the utmost.With Cecil, he had been quiet and pleasant, but, underlying the quietude and the pleasantry, there had been quite a respect and sympathy which had stolen upon him unawares from the first moment he had looked on her. If he felt her moonlight beauty, he had not attempted to express his feeling by word of mouth. He could not define even to himself what it was that made Claire and Cecil so different, yet so alike. But Claire's

face seemed more familiar to him than her cousin's, though he could not, for the life of him, recollect where he had seen the woman she reminded him of. In England, he decided, after he had racked his memory in vain, for both girls were thoroughly English in their beauty.This first ride is a success, so to say. Yet, somehow, Claire feels a sensation of disappointment when she gets home."I don't believe I shall make the man ever care about me," she thinks as she walks upstairs. "I really believe he imagines I am worth nothing but froth and compliments. Oh, who is he saving the best part of his heart for, I wonder?"She puts up her hand to shade her eyes from the sunshine that seems to hurt her,

and plays an angry tattoo on the floor with her high military heel."He is only going to amuse himself with me while he is here--I see that; Marco let me look right into his soul--but this man, his very carelessness and gaiety defy me. Never mind, Lord Melville shall care for me, if it break his heart. He shall love me some day!"She laughs a quiet kittenish laugh."Yes!" she says between her white teeth, "he shall love me, even if he finds out that I am half another man's wife!"She recollects the face of her old love with infinite disgust, while she dwells on the image of a fair patrician man, whose grave deep blue eyes have gone down deep into her heart.CHAPTER V.
A BIT OF REAL ROMANCE."Thy sweet, low bosom--thy close hair,Thy straight soft flanks and slender feet,Thy virginal strange air,Are these not over fairFor love to greet?"WHILE Claire sleeps, and dreams perchance of her new love, Lord Melville is up and on his way to the trysting spot down by the woods. He saunters along with his cigar, for it is yet quite early, and lingers a minute or two to watch the eddies of the little lake and to wonder if the glittering pools still cover the fish that used to be well worth the trouble of catching. Then he looks upwards at the tracery of the roofing of the trees that are still

somewhat bare of leaves and let in glimpses of a blue sky. Here, in his dear old home, thoughts beset him which have sadness and a vein of poetry about them--but presently other things come into his mind, and his step grows elastic as he hurries a little. He has kept his meeting with Cecil a secret from Claire. He tells himself that he did so in accordance with Cecil's request, but it is doubtful if his feelings were analysed, whether he would have said a word on the subject to anyone.That little encounter yesterday morning and the game of tennis, seem to him a bit of real romance which would be denuded of charm if babbled about. And as he strides along, it suddenly strikes him that he is on his road to "love," and then he laughs at his fatuous folly."For what right have paupers to the luxury of love?" he asks himself.The girls are down on the lawn, and Cecil blushes brightly as he appears on the scene. She has not a particle of fastness in her composition. She has promised to meet Melville, for he has attracted her. The face of Bayard in the old picture that hung in her school-room years ago, has haunted her all her life, with its deep-set eyes and sweet, grave mouth, and in Melville she has found the living prototype. The romance she has girlishly cherished has suddenly changed into a bewildering tangible reality, and she has succumbed at once to the fascination that face has for her. For the future, if her years reach a hundred, Alan Lord Melville

will be her Bayard --sans pear et sans reproche.Cecil, when she opened her eyes this morning, tried to convince herself that an appointment with a stranger was fast and wrong, but her strength and resolution of eighteen years were unable to cope with the only real glimpse of happiness that had crossed her path since she came to live with her relatives.She has come to the meeting with nothing bold or bizarre about her, she has come deliberately, with little, pleasant throbs at her heart, and also with some womanly curiosity in her breast as to how he will meet her; for she had seen him riding with Claire the day before--Claire, in the perfection of her beauty, smiling on him as they rode--and a sense of loneliness

and desolation had crept over her as she looked. It seemed so hard that Claire was sole monopoliser, that Claire should have--everything.She felt almost as if another woman was usurping her place, and then, as she thought all this, a hot blush of self-reproach swept over her face--for what right had such ideas to come into her head?A handsomer couple could not have been seen--Cecil confesses this to herself at once. She is very miserable on her way to the little lawn, but she and Bell go back as happy as a couple of children from the tryst. There is a great gathering of daisies and buttercups, and when it is finished they hear, to their consternation, the big clock strike--nine. What will Claire say? Where will she think they have been?"Let us run," Bell cries, and she is away some yards as she speaks."Good-bye!" Cecil says, lingering a little. In the clear morning light, her tints gleam up like marble, and in her small face the big eyes shine like stars.Melville catches her hand and holds it fast."One moment--are you glad you came today?""So glad! If you only knew how quiet my life is, you would understand.""I think I understand now! A demain! Say à demain!""A demain!" and with a shy but happy smile she flies after Bell, and Melville walks back by another path to breakfast, where Claire is waiting for him. The two are alone, for Mrs. Delaval keeps late hours of

a morning, while the Honourable John has swallowed his meal some time ago, and is miles away on his horse with half-a-dozen dogs following him.Somehow Claire is silent and depressed, and as white as her gown, as she presides at the tea-tray. In vain she tries to rouse herself to her usual repartee. Melville can scarcely get an answer from her, and the conversation revolves itself into a few conventionalities which are not amusing.The fact is she has a fit of discontent, which has come with a sudden conviction that she will never make headway with this man.Lord Melville apparently enjoys his visit, and at his host and hostess's eager pressing stays on from week to week. The afternoon

rides with Claire are apparently gay and enjoyable, and he spends his evenings mostly alone with her, while she charms him with her beauty and intelligence--for she is brilliant and superficially clever--and makes the most of all she knows to interest and amuse him. Neither père nor mère Delaval trouble much about the convenances, and leave Claire perpetually alone with their guest--Mrs. Delaval, because she has a keen desire that Claire should "catch" a real live earl, her husband from the faith he has in Melville. The Honourable John has, in fact, so great a liking for him, and believes so implicitly that he can be trusted, that it never enters his head that daily tête-à-têtes between a beautiful young girl and a handsome young man may be dangerous to the peace of

mind of one or the other. He has one of those honest, simple natures that never suspect evil in anyone, and even the knocks and brunts of the life he has gone through for many years has failed to harden him to the happiness of others.But Claire knows that after all these weeks, passed so much together, that she is no nearer Melville's heart than she was the day they met.April has come, and in May she and her father and mother go to Town. Will she see as much of him in the house in Curzon Street as she has done at High Towers?-she doubts it. The aristocratic ladies of the best set--his club friends--the whirl of Society--will militate more against her making him care for her than here--where she has no rival

She little knows."I don't believe you have made acquaintance with my other young ladies, Melville."The voice is the Honourable John's, and startles Claire as she emerges from a path thickly fringed by laurustinus, and in which she and her companion have been virtually as much alone as if stranded in Sahara.Here they are--her father and the two girls--and he formally introduces them to his visitor, while Bell laughs a quiet, rather mischievous, laugh, and Cecil's hands grow cold as death, while in spite of herself a hot flush bathes her cheek, and she longs to sink into the earth away from the keen, almost cruel, eyes of Claire."This is Bluebell," the Honourable John announces, with unmistakable tenderness

in his tone. "She is very shy, and she passes her life in fantastic dreams. When we came into the money, what do you think she answered when I asked her what she wanted most?""The moon, perhaps," Melville says, smiling. "That is what I have always heard romantic young ladies long for!""No. Her desires did not reach quite so high. She wanted a new Andersen's fairy tales, because Topsy and Turvey had chawed the old one nearly up, and she wanted some big apple-trees to lie under!""Life would be an earthly paradise with more of such choice innocent spirits about," Melville says so earnestly that Bell feels he is not laughing at her, and gives him a grateful look."And this is my niece, Miss Cecil Delaval. Is she not the exact double of my eldest daughter?"Melville looks straight at her as if he were searching for the likeness, but in reality to feast his eyes for a few moments on what, to his thinking, is a most delicious face. Cecil is looking down, so he cannot see her eyes, but her mouth, so like a child's, wears a sweet, ingenuous smile, a smile he has never seen on Claire's lips."Like, yet most unlike," he answers on the spur of the moment, with his glance full on the drooping white lids and flower-like face. They have the same features, but the expression is not quite the same," he adds in a careless tone."You said you would go with me to the cavern in the long wood, and it will be too

late if we do not start at once," Claire breaks in rather impatiently. She is furious at this rencontre, and almost wishes he had left High Towers before it."Would not you like the walk?" he asks Bell, but she shakes her head in dissent."And you?" he says, addressing Cecil."Cecil has a singing lesson this afternoon from a London master," Claire puts in at once. "She is devoted to singing lessons and would not care to miss one."Now this speech emanates from an embryo scheme in Claire's head. It is the first fang shown by the serpent, and somehow Cecil feels a sharp thrill of indefinable dread go through her as she listens."I must go in," she says, in a low,

uncertain voice, and, with a slight inclination of her head, she walks slowly away."Do you think my cousin pretty?" is the first question Claire asks, as she and her escort start on their ramble."Could I think her aught but beautiful, since she is so like you?" Melville answers jesuitically. The fact is he can see there is thunder in the air, and is afraid Cecil will have the full vent of the storm if he is not very careful in his reply. "It is a case of sunshine and shadow, you see!" he adds, leaving her to appropriate the first, but feeling rather like a traitor in using the word shadow in conjunction with Cecil's face!"Ah!" Claire ejaculates, well pleased, and she brightens up at once.Still, she does not want his admiration

now. It is not enough for her; she wants his whole being --the mind that overmasters her own, compelling a respect that she has not yielded to anyone before--the heart proud, and tender and honest. She wants absolute autocratic power over this man, to enslave him with her love, to tie him down to her with ten thousand meshes woven by her scheming nature. And as she saunters along by his side, she asks herself over and over again:"Did I ever love Marco like this?" and the answer is: "Never! that was not love--passion lifted him to the level of my heart for a brief time, but had no power to hold him there. But this man! I could worship him, if he would let me--but will he--will he?"When she reaches home, and her own

room, she pauses before the big mirror, and scrutinises her face steadily for some moments.The walk, the excitement, the air, have lent a lovelier pink to her cheek than it even usually wears, and her eyes flash like jewels.I am beautiful, I know I am," she says triumphantly, and Lord Melville shall recognise my beauty's power as sure as I am living. It will not be yet, perhaps, but I will have patience. Tout vient à point à celui qui sait attendre. So long as I reach him someday, I don't care how long I try. The end would recompense all!"CHAPTER VI.
A TERRIBLE TEMPTATION."Eyes coloured like a water flower,And deeper than the green sea's glass,Eyes that remember one sweet hour,In vain we swore it should not pass,In vain--alas!"BEFORE Claire dons her dainty toilette for dinner, she sits down and writes to Ferrari. She tells him that the first mention of his name has raised such a storm in the house, that she dares not touch on the subject again. She says that this is April, and in another thirteen months she will be of age and able to do as she pleases. She ends by begging his forbearance and patience, for her sake, and she adds, "I

will let you know the day and hour you can come to me." This is the purport of her letter, and she seals it and directs it, and is glad when the task is over."I must risk his writing to the post-office at Exeter, but I want his answer to this--I pray it may be one that will answer my purpose!"Then, while the others are dressing, she runs down and drops the momentous letter into the locked bag.Somehow when dinner is over, and Melville, having smoked his cigar with the Honourable John, comes to the drawing-room, Claire finds him unusually grave and silent."I am sure you are depressed," she says softly. "Can't I find something to amuse You? Will you have a book?" and she

takes up a gorgeously bound volume from a side table."`Enoch Arden,'" she says, "not lively certainly, but it will be better than my conversation, for I feel curiously out of spirits tonight. Perhaps it is sympathy with you!"He does not notice her last words, or the tenderness of tone in which she spoke them.He is looking over the book she handed him, and for a few moments there is rather an oppressive silence in the room."Have you read this, Miss Delaval?" he asks suddenly.Claire's heart seems to stop beating, and she catches her breath. It is a coincidence that she should have deliberately handed him that particular book, but she had done it absently."Yes," she answers, averting her face so that he may not see the expression on it."What do you think of it?""Think of it--why, that Enoch Arden was quite right in leaving his wife to the happiness she had found. It would have been very hard upon her if she had been forced to give up a man she loved, for one whom absence and silence had dislodged from her heart!"Melville laughs, and his laugh has a little unpleasant sound in it that catches her ear at once."Then you don't agree with Shakespeare when he says:`Love is not loveWhich alters when it alteration finds'?'He spouts the quotation with any attempt at the melo-dramatic--but there is a

decided earnestness in his voice, and his eyes are graver than usual, though there is a slight smile on his mouth."I am not an authority on such subjects," she replies carelessly. "You see, my years are few, and my loves have not been many! In fact, I believe I have had less experience of love than any girl I know.""Counting your sister and your cousin, I suppose?""Oh, Bell, she is a child, she loves nothing but nightingales and those sort of things. Cecil has had one experience, but I must not break confidence, you know!"He looks at her rather keenly, while his face flushes a shade, and Enoch Arden falls ignominiously from his hand to the floor.It is very clever, her assumption of innocence and her utter impassiveness of feature, while her heart beats like a sledge hammer."Then you have never been in love, Miss Delaval?" he asks abruptly. "Please forgive such an impertinent question, but you see we made a compact of friendship, and I ought to know something about you! From what you say, of course you don't know what love is? Since your experience of it is less than your cousin's--and she has only been in love--once isn't it so?""Yes.""Well, tell me--supposing you had been in love--would you change because you had cause for change, or would you love on in spite of everything?""I don't know. There are men and men. Sometimes a man might be so lovable that a woman would not be faithless to him for the world.""Ah, then, you have had some experience in the tender passion, or you would not know that there are men and men!"Claire grows ruddier than the cherry."Cannot one speak from hearsay or book-lore? Must one only say what personal experience has taught? I hate false talk--false looks--and it would hurt me dreadfully to think you doubted me. Tell me, Lord Melville, have I been so unfortunate during our acquaintance as not even to inspire trust?"She looks so beautiful with her pleading eyes and pathetic accents, that Melville would be more than man if he did

not feel a sort of glamour come over him. He had never thought her such a rare creature before. She wears a charming frock, in Swaebe's latest mode--of some soft, clinging white stuff, and her only adornment is a bunch of lilies of the valley near her slender throat. Not an ornament--no--not a sparkling gem has she to mar her perfect whiteness. A sparkle like champagne has come into her eyes, and her face grows radiant as he takes her hand and says, in a softer tone than he is conscious of doing:"Do not say such heresies again, and do not think for one moment that I have a hard thought of you in my heart.""I am glad! I don't think you quite know how earnestly I long for your good opinion. And now let us forget my little

misunderstanding and have some music--do you like music?""I love it," he answers warmly, for he is quite a fanatico per la musica, and has a good tenor voice of his own. "If you sing--why have I not heard you before?"Claire smiles and sits down at Mrs. Delaval's three hundred guinea grand piano. Her white draperies sweep away on the soft thick carpet, and the lilies of the valley nestling at her throat send out a delicious and subtle perfume.There is no resisting the manifold and unspeakable charms of her presence and the surroundings, and Melville gives himself up to the spell of the hour, especially as Claire does nothing to challenge admiration, but sits with downcast eyes, turning over the music in her

portfolio. Then she plays by heart a slow tender little air-the same Femme de Marin" she played at Brussels. It sounds like the rippling of water, with a thread of sadness running through it that adds to the dreaminess around.Claire could not have chosen a more efficient mode of appealing to Melville's senses than by music. So he yields unresisting to the feelings her beauty engenders, and listens to the melody with dreamy eyes, doubting if he has not done injustice to the girl in thinking her often cold, heartless and shallow.She pauses a minute or two--a picture for an artist, while from her thickly-fringed milk-white lids she casts a furtive look at the handsome face, on which the firelight flickers fitfully, deepening the blue of the

deep-set eyes and softening the curve of the resolute well-cut lips with the tenderness of a woman.Then in a passionate voice she begins to sing:"Veux-tu mon nom?--il est à toi--Veux-tu mes biens?--ils sont à toi. Avec bouhenr je to lea donneSi ton regard brille et rayonne, Et se repose un peu sir moi.Si tu savais comme je t'aime,Bien sûr--bien sûr--tu m'aimerais!"A second's pause, and she sings again with such passion that no Diva could have condensed fiercer feelings into the words."Veux-tu mon coeur? il est à toi,Car it faut bien que tu souviensJe n'ai plus rien qui m'appartientDepuis que j'ai connu ta loi!O prends mon coeur-il est à toi. Si tu savais comme je t'aime,Bien sûr--bien sûr--tu m'aimerais!""Even Marco would be satisfied with

the fire I have put into the song tonight," she thinks as she finishes.The lovely voice ceases, and Melville feels the shy, tremulous touch of a hand on his own--the scent of the lilies floats by--a pair of large eyes look at him with deprecation in their depths. He is neither very much better nor worse than other men of his class, men who own honour and refinement, and all this has a certain effect on him.He catches the snowflake of a hand--then kisses it--almost any other man of Society would do the same thing, tempted as sorely--but some inward feeling makes the blood surge over his face, and he murmurs quite humbly:"I beg your pardon."The inward feeling is probably that he

feels a wretch for having by the slightest action abused the implicit trust evidently reposed in him by the parents of this girl.Claire smiles--looks down on her hand and raising it, presses her own lips to the identical spot he had touched."This is how I show I forgive you," she whispers.Is it a marvel that Melville catches her in his arms and kisses her lovely face and her soft alluring eyes with the wild unreasoning feeling that is no doubt sometimes irresistible, and always--always --ephemeral?As suddenly as he clasped her--so suddenly does he release her, and walks away to the other end of the room."Tell me, Lord Melville, do you think

the worse of me for what I did? I am too impulsive, I am afraid!" Her voice falters and tears are in her eyes."Think the worse of you--no! Why ask such a question?" Melville answers, feeling horribly nervous and very much ashamed of himself."You look so grave!""Would you have me look triumphant?""No!--but I have been very much to blame!"She looks really so distressed and penitent at her defalcation from maidenly decorum that he strives to reassure her by all the chivalry in his nature."Your father would like you to be kind to me or he would not throw us together like this. Are you afraid of

me now that I have presumed on your goodness?""No, no! --I fear nothing but losing your good opinion," she replies hurriedly."That you never can--I think too much of you for that. Why, you are absolutely trembling!""Am I?" she asks, "not much--it is very foolish!"Melville is mad tonight. The spell of this young modern Delilah is on him as it had been on Ferrari. The Circean face, with its vivid tints, its bewitching eyes, is near, for Claire has risen and stands beside him. The little scarlet mouth quivers, the white arm left bare to the elbow by its ruffle of lace, almost touches him--and he can hear her heart beating fast--the virgin

heart on which only his own image is inscribed.Surely--surely--he adores her. He would be more than mortal if he failed to adore such perfection of face and form, and he loses sight of discretion."You love me, Claire!" he cries, "your eyes tell me so, though your sweet lips are silent. Even now your cheek burns, and your hand grows cold beneath the power of my touch. Is it so, Claire? Tell me--is it so?"She does not need to answer by words, her eyes are eloquent enough to want no aid of speech.Suddenly she releases her hand and moves away a little."What is it--are you angry with me?" he asks perplexed."Not angry; but--""But what?""I am horribly ashamed.""Ashamed, why?--because I have found out that you care for me?""Yes.""Why?""Because I have no right--"The sentence falls low, hesitating and pathetic, and it touches him."I give you the right," he exclaims impetuously."How?" she asks, opening her eyes in profound surprise."By asking you to love me?"It is finished--scarcely have the fatal words dropped from his lips than a revulsion comes.Melville is too chivalrous to show her

what he feels, but his face grows ghastly pale as the lovely head with its bronze-flecked hair goes down on his shoulder.Claire is happy--for like a good many weak and wicked women--she thinks Ferrari committed a sin in marrying her clandestinely and that that sin absolves her from all faith and fidelity towards him.Curiously enough, she never remembers that she was the tempter, and he the tempted, when the marriage in Brussels came about.CHAPTER VII.
"HAS ANY MAN LOVED YOU?""Beloved--there is no grief like thisThe barren blossom of thy prayer,Thou shalt find out how sweet it is!"THE year is only about four months old, but the sun shines down in almost midsummer ardour, searing into yellow the long spiked blades of nodding grass and flinging his errant beams right through the newly-clad tree tops and across the indolent ripples of the little lake. Scarcely a twig seems to stir in the fresh spring foliage. The wind, west and balmy and fragrant, comes in gentle whispers that sound just like magic melody. Under the bright sky odours like incense to the sun-god rise up from tangled

heaps of wild blossoms. Shadow in fact is nowhere, from the amber-lit heads of the imperial elms down to the daisy-enamelled grass, and nothing savours of coolness except a soft broad green bank, under a group of lilacs, on which the tall figure of Lord Melville is stretched.He is not asleep, but he is so absorbed in thought that he is dead to all external things. His head, with its close, crisp brown hair, rests on the palm of his hand, his hat is hung on a projecting lilac bough, and he seems to bear unflinchingly the hot beams that pour down on his half-closed lids and quiver on his hair, touching it with a warm hue. A strong scent of wood violets and wallflowers rises up around, and a monotonous duet between a tiny brook hard by and some fluttering leaflets murmurs in his

ears, while his deep blue eyes mechanically follow the flight of a brood of starlings across the sky, and the dancing of the yellow spring butterflies over some flaunting poppy heads.Melville is not a bit in love with Claire, yet fate, or rather a match-making mother and a simple-hearted unworldly father, have thrown the two together day after day and week after week, and yet he is thinking of an evening gone by, thinking of a charming face and exquisite voice that had seemed to speak the complaint of a lovesick soul.And Melville is asking himself if it is right, or generous, or manly of him to hesitate about linking Claire's life to his own.Claire loves him--there can be no manner of doubt about that, every word and glance

of hers reveals it. How beautiful she is, too, with her glowing flower - like tints and her intense eyes. The look those eyes had given him at parting that evening rises up vividly before him, shaming the sun in its warmth and brilliancy, shaming the hue of the "blue grey sea." Her hand had lingered in his clasp, her proximity had sent a thrill through the fibres of his frame, and then her song:
"Ah! si to savais comme je t'aime, Bien sûr--bien sûr, to m'aimerais!"
The very words of the song, full of pathos and pleading, haunt him.But he is not in love with her--though that evening's picture lives vividly in his mind--he surely is not in love with her!Since that evening, just a little constraint

has tinged his manner, and raised up a sort of barrier between them, and Claire has herself seemed to retire from the field. This is a move on her part which is but a common feminine ruse--a manœuvre to hurt his vanity and reach his heart.But Melville has taken it in good faith, and Claire has over-reached herself.Glad to be set free as if by mutual consent, he has resolved to take a step which will drive all things of joy and beauty out of his head, save the joy and beauty of one fair girl, and she is--not Claire--the brilliant Claire, the prospective heiress of thirty thousand a year, although his funds are extremely low, and money, to him, a great desideratum.These thoughts chase one another through her brain in rapid succession as

he lies under the lilacs that are showing big white and purple buds above his head. The green couch skirts the little tennis lawn from the woods, and is quite out of sight of the house. Somehow he can hardly shake off the uncomfortable spell Claire had thrown over him and impatiently rising, he begins to throw clusters of brown berries into the brook that bears them on, dancing and rippling under its burden, when Cecil and Bell, bright as summer-flowers and happy as birds, run up to him.An hour's walk has been arranged for this morning. It is earlier than usual, and the fear of Claire coming out is not great, for her rule is not to descend from her room till breakfast time.The trio stroll along slowly to quite a

lonely and sequestered part of the grounds which is their destination.The brook near which Melville has been lying has its source in a spring that comes from a tiny ledge of rock, mid way up a little slope that rises fresh and green. The ledge is a table of granite that curves inwards a few feet, where a shell of stone shoots out cleft by a fissure in the rock, and from this break the spring leaps out and pours itself over the granite in a limpid sheet of water. It looks so deliciously cool and pleasant under the warm sunbeams--the waters are gathered below the ledge into the loveliest rocky pools; sand and pebbles white as snow gleam up like bits of silver from the bottom, and the jagged points of rock are all covered with feathery ferns and lichens, while the overhanging

trees hide the place away effectually from the windows of High Towers.Lord Melville and his companions walk up to the miniature waterfall, and sit down on the ledge. They seem happy and cheerful, but somehow Melville has grown quieter of late, and lost a good deal of the insouciance which had been one of his chief characteristics before his acquaintance with the present owners of his old home.Several things vex and trouble him, and the struggle that has gone on in his mind for some days has robbed his mouth of smiles and lent a graver look to his eyes. This struggle has barely ended yet, for the dawn of this very morning had found him awake and undecided and just a little irritable. He has lost a certain amount of self-respect

since that warm little episode with Claire. All night he had dreamt that Circe stood beside him--an evil fire in her eyes, her red lips tempting him, her voice low, sweet, subtle, enticing him on and on to Hades, and he had started and awakened just in time to save himself from toppling over the brink of destruction.The daylight dispelled his weird fancies, his vivid dreams, but has brought in its train heaps of perplexity and annoyance."I have no right," Claire had whispered, wistfully and deprecatingly, with downcast face and drooping lids.He had gone mad for a few moments over her face. The lids were so white, the lashes so marvellously long, and he had answered that he gave her the right to love him.How he curses the folly that made him say it! How he wishes that he had kept out of temptation if he was a weak fool like that!Now as he sits on the ledge with the two girls beside him, he throws off at last, with the vigour of a strong mind giving itself to an honest idea, what seems to him to have been but a horrible nightmare, and resolves that nothing shall induce him to carry out the real meaning of those words of his--words that had broken from him in a fierce moment of wild, unreasoning feeling.Presently Cecil and Bell run off to a nook enamelled thickly with daisies and buttercups, while Melville sits smoking his cigar. Cecil looks back at him and catching his eyes colours deeply."Bell! wouldn't it be delicious to spend

our life so?" she whispers, pressing her little palms together. I wonder if I shall ever be so happy again!""Who knows?" replies Bell in her queer dreamy fashion. "But after all--why not? The world will always be beautiful--not sin or sorrow will make the roses less bright or the nightingales sing less beautifully, you know.""Oh, Bell--how can you be so foolish?" Cecil cries impatiently. "It isn't the roses or the nightingales that make me--make life so charming now! You remember the first days we were here--it was summer then and the sky was blue and the trees looked grand in full foliage, but we did not enjoy ourselves as we do now.""What makes it so different then?" Bell asks with a mischievous smile.A hot flush sweeps over Cecil's face. She turns away and looking down a long green vista, answers in a low faltering voice:"I do not know!"Bell, who is almost a child, but has more reflection than a grown-up woman, watches her. "Love" is a new study to her--that is in the present tense--tangible, reciprocal. "Love" in the heart of dreamland in which "Lohengrin" lives--she quite under-stands. Hitherto fairy lore, dogs and birds have been her main objects in life--but now she really grows pale, and her heart seems to sink down like a lump of lead in her bosom. She cares for Cecil next best to her father in all the world, and while Cecil looks forward to her future with the bright hopeful spirit of a girl who loves

desperately and believes she is loved in return, Bell's visionary nature sees dark clouds in the distance and a heavy storm that will break over her cousin's devoted head."Come, Bell--the time is flying so fast," and so the two with great handfuls of wild flowers go back to Melville, and Bell grows her own quaint self again under his influence."You're a young Solon, Miss Bell, and words of wisdom fall from your pretty red lips on our astonished ears. Why, where have you learnt all the poetry of thought that drops from your mouth without your knowing it?"Bell looks at him steadily to see if he is laughing at her, but no--he is in sad and sober earnest, and a flash of pleasure at his

praise comes into her big eyes, and then she steals away alone to some distance and sitting on a cleft bough of oak falls into an ideal world where men and women love each other with an ideal love, pure, platonic and everlasting.Meanwhile Melville and Cecil find a rustic seat which is hidden away amongst a lavish tangle of boughs that curve over them like a tent.Melville is not lacking in honourable feeling, neither is he fickle--although men might dub him dishonourable and women would swear he was fickle.He has not cast aside his words to Claire lightly, but the fumes of passion have evaporated, and he has evidently decided on his course of action, for he leans over his companion whispering earnestly. And

yet he need not whisper, for the only witnesses are the fluttering pale green leaves and the murmuring water."If you love me, Cecil, as I love you--with all my heart and soul and strength--say it to me!--I must feel the assurance before I am satisfied. Your blushes are sweet, darling, and I like to feel your hands trembling in mine, but I want something more. Tell me, Cecil--Do you really love me?"He has no need to ask. He has lived every hour of his life--he has been told by women in the great world and the other how they love him--and he knows the difference between the true and the false as well as any man in the nineteenth century does, but he wants to hear the girl's sweet voice come trembling from her very soul--
he longs to listen to those three magic words that most of us have at some time of our lives heard, with beating heart and flushed cheek and pulses throbbing high--"I love you!""I love you!" whispers Cecil, and she says the three words with clasped hands --lifted up just as a child does in prayer. Her eyes, shy, but full of truthful feeling, seek his for a second and fall again, then Cecil bows her head and bursts into a passion of happy tears. Melville draws her to him and kisses her for the first time--not passionately, there is not a particle of earthly base-born sentiment in the caress. He kisses her on her sweet red lips, gently, reverently, purely--just as a mother kisses her first-born--doubting if it yet belongs to her; and oh, how he

loathes and scorns himself for having sullied his lips with the wild kisses in which all the lower part of nature was dominant --the fierce, evil kisses that fever a man's brain, but leave his heart unsatisfied and remorseful.Gathering Cecil in his arms he looks straight down into the clear eyes in which his own image is reflected. Her pretty mouth, so like a child's, quivers, her white fingers flutter in his clasp, her supple, girlish figure yields itself innocently to him.She loves him so!--loves him with that delicious all - absorbing first love that savours of religion in a woman's soul. This is the hero of her life--the ideal of her dreams--the idol she has placed on a pedestal of goodness to bow down to and

adore. This is the king of woman's best kingdom--her heart. The Bayard--sans pear et sans reproche--who has been associated with her earliest yearnings and imaginings.No other man's caress or dalliance has ever gone near her--fate has kept her pure and true for this one and only love of her existence. Fresh, worthy, a pearl above price, she is here, to be plucked by him, fostered in his breast, or left to fade and die by his neglect. It is no wonder that Lord Melville's heart yearns towards this girl, the only holy thing he believes he has found among all womankind. A strange and delicious happiness and content steals over him as he sits here--but the feelings have naught of fire about them. Cecil's

proximity simply makes him feel--a better man. They are a study for an artist--the two--with the sunbeams glinting through the interlacing boughs, and throwing a halo of light around them. He gazes at her steadily for a moment, with the halo of light forming an aureole for her fair head--she is like a young saint, her tints are so white and pure, her eyes so guileless and frank, her face without a flaw."What a charming little countess my darling will make!" he says fondly.Cecil blushes and looks at him gratefully, and stooping, kisses the hand that clasps her.The action makes him start, it is just what Claire did, and somehow he hates the idea of this girl resembling

her in any single look or action of her life."Don't do that," he says hastily, almost roughly. "Never kiss my hand, child. It puts me in mind of a moment which I would fling into oblivion for ever--if I could! Cecil--love! my lips are near, kiss them as much as you will, and I will never upbraid you!""I want to tell you something, Lord Melville," she says in a low voice, after a momentary silence."Tell me what you will, but I am not Lord Melville. Call me by my Christian name. I don't believe you know what it is! And yet you are my plighted wife!""Alan!"It sounds deliciously in his ears."My brave little darling, I didn't believe

you would ever muster up enough courage to say it to me!""Well, you see --I have said it so often!""Said it--to who?""To myself--when I am alone--or in my dreams.""And has my spirit visited you already?""Your face has never left me since the morning we met--and then you know I have your picture to look at always."He laughs and colours a little."Do you think my picture worth looking at, sweetheart?"There is not the slightest need for her to answer. Melville is by no means a vain fop--in fact, personal vanity is not in his nature--but he has only to glance at the

girl to know that to her there is no other face on earth like his.Suddenly a memory flashes through his mind--a cruel, harrowing memory--that blanches his features and brings a cloud to his eyes. Grasping both her hands, he draws her off her seat, and making her stand before him; he looks keenly at her.It tortures him to have to ask his question, but Claire's words that Cecil had had "one experience," goad him on to do so. He had been so sure before that fatal evening that this girl was a little wild flower, whose exceeding beauty had escaped notice, only to come to him and be worn by him in absolute freshness and fragrance! He almost loathes Claire for having poisoned his ears by her words, but the poison is still there, for his lips are

set almost cruelly, and his eyes glitter with a cold hard scrutiny that bewilders her.Cecil is an essentially timid girl, and her life among these relatives has not been one to foster nerves."Have you ever in your life loved anyone--child --but me?" he questions sternly.And even as he asks he shivers, for he knows that the knowledge of one little kiss laid on those soft warm lips of hers, one fervent touch of her hand by any other man, would take for him all the bloom off his flower and render it worthless to cull and to keep.And Cecil does the very worst thing she can do to prove her innocence. She breaks into a perfect storm of tears, covering her face with her hands.Fortunately for her, Melville is feeling desperately in love, and the sight of some great pearly drops trickling down her white cheeks quenches the fire within him. He removes her hands and sees intense wistfulness, sorrowful deprecation, and a world of love in her dove-like eyes. The face, itself suggestive of a white lily, does not clinch one whit from his regard. Even Lavater himself would have failed to discover one speck of guile on the delicate features, and yet, unreasonable as his sex, Lord Melville is not quite satisfied. He comes of a line of women famous for their purity and goodness. His wife must follow suit--he determines--and if by any chance, which Heaven forefend, Claire's decided insinuation is correct--he will throw love to the winds

rather than dishonour his noble house, which has had but one flaw in the world's eyes--poverty."Speak, Cecil! and remember that if ever your answer is proved false--no matter if we are man and wife, I will have none of you--I will never set eyes on you again, though my heart break, and my life become a blank," he cries impetuously. "Speak--say if you have ever loved any other man but me?"She slides from his grasp, and kneeling before him, lifts up her streaming eyes."Never!"She does not swear, nor dream of swearing; her simple "Never," she is sure, will carry conviction to him, for it is the plain, unvarnished truth, and to his honest mind truth must make itself felt."Has any man loved you?" he asks, his voice still harder and colder than is usual with it."No man has ever told me that he loved me! Oh, believe me--believe  me, even if you do not wish ever to see me again!" she pleads, still on her knees and now with her little hands lifted up in entreaty."Believe you? Yes, against the angels themselves!" he answers passionately.Short-sighted mortal he is, where was the faith and trust he vows--in the future? But for the present, his caresses and loving words drive from her thoughts all that had dimmed her sweet eyes and wounded her simple, loyal heart.Cecil smiles up in his face."My darling, you are like an April day, all smiles and tears, but the smiles must

predominate when you are Lady Melville!"He kisses her again, and Cecil nestles into his embrace. Bayard has let her love him, and she has found her heaven on earth.CHAPTER. VIII.
"AN ARMISTICE RATHER!""Shall we not laugh--shall we not weep? Not we--though this be as it is,For love awake--or love asleepEnds in a laugh--a dream--a kiss--A song like this!"CLAIRE does not ask Melville to ride with her as often as she used to do; she goes out riding by herself, saying that a groom is not necessary in the country, and if anyone was interested in her movements, they would note that her horse's head is always turned one way--to the right--when she passes through the gates of High Towers. It is to the right that Exeter lies, and her destination is the General Post Office. She

is impatient to receive Ferrari's answer to her letter, she wants it for a purpose now; but when she does get it, she does not open it, but pushes it into the bodice of her riding habit, and stands for a moment as if riveted to the ground. Her eyes wear a cold, steely expression, and her mouth grows dogged, while she absently switches the ground with her riding whip.In other days, before she had seen Lord Melville, she would have torn open a letter from her old lover, eager to arrive at the sweet words of love and passion; but those days are dead--never to live again, for nothing in this world can ignite the ashes of a dead passion.And to her now there is no man so little near her heart as the man she calls her husband.Reaching home, she avoids meeting anyone, and locking herself up in her own room, she rouses herself with an effort to open the letter."My OWN,"Would that some word could leap from my heart to yours, taking with it some faint idea of my love for you. You are the only woman I have ever loved--you are the only woman that I shall love till I die. The happiness you gave me makes me so restless that I grow desperate, and resolve to claim you at once, but then I remember that I pledged you my word not to come unless you are merciful and bid me. But perhaps you are more content than I am with this terrible parting--God knows! Claire, do you love me as I love

you? A mad desire is in me to read your very soul, to know if it is possible that you can change--can anything separate us two, my wife? I wonder often how you could have given your love to me so unreservedly --I am not worthy of you perhaps--I have not much to recommend me, but if a wealth of affection can make a man worthy, then we are fully matched--no man can worship you as I do. Yesterday, I took the tress of hair you gave me, and looked at it, and the glitter reminded me how we two were wedded without even a ring to bind us--oh, child, was that an evil augury? --can anything --anything sever us? Darling, write to me, say that you will give up your wish that I should wait an eternity --till you are of age--before I come to you. Tell me you are willing to accept the displeasure

of your people and everything rather than an absence that kills me. But if your love is not strong enough to brave everything, for my sake now---I must wait--wait on your will, with a longing, yearning, burning love."MARCO."Claire throws herself back in her chair when she comes to the end of the letter."Thank Heaven, he has consented to wait! Months are long enough to compass anything in this world if one is not a fool. I do not think Melville believed me quite when I said Cecil had had one experience in love! I wonder if he cared? If I thought he had any feeling for her, I would do anything to keep them apart. But no--he does not even see her, or try to

see her; still it is best to guard against pain or misery, and it would be pain and misery if I found out that he cared for any other woman---"Her eyes rest on the open letter, as she thinks all this. Suddenly she snatches it up, reads it carefully through again and laughs, a quiet laugh that has a mocking sound in it."My poor Marco! You little know how this letter has proved my best friend. There is only one word to alter in it, and if occasion requires, Lord Melville shall have proof of my words about Cecil. Here goes!"Springing up and seating herself at her writing table, she substitutes the name of Cecil for the name of Claire in small Italian characters that none but an expert

could detect as different from Ferrari's. When her task is accomplished she puts the letter carefully away into a carved Indian box with a peculiar key, and goes back to her easy chair.Her face grows dreamy and a tender expression creeps over her mouth."I believe I have fallen madly in love," she exclaims, starting up and sitting bolt upright. The feeling I had for Marco, compared with what I feel for him-is  as water to wine--how will it end, I wonder?"When Claire, after making a charming evening toilette of pale blue, with just a sofrano rose fastening the laces that shade her throat without concealing the whiteness of it, goes down to the drawing-room for the mauvais quart

d'heure before dinner, she is surprised to find her mother installed in one of the largest fauteuils. Mrs. Delaval has made a point of absenting herself from the sight of the visitor, mostly to please her daughter, but also because she does not feel at her ease in his society. There is something in Lord Melville's quiet manner, in his peculiarly grave eyes, in his way of talking that impresses her to nervousness. But this identical evening she has arrayed herself in her Sunday best, as she calls it. She has placed a sort of oriental turban a little awry on her head, with a couple of ostrich tips nodding over one eye. She wears a smart wine-coloured tea-gown with a primrose front, and an imposing train. Diamond flies, spiders, alligators and other creatures, perch all over her from neck to

waist. Diamond bracelets shine on her dingy arms. Diamonds gleam on every finger--even the thumb. She is, in fact, a perambulating mine of Golconda, and she wears a self-satisfied smile on her mouth.She has descended from her own sanctum sanctorum to perform a duty--a duty to her offspring--and has braved that offspring's wrath, from a sense of conscientiousness.Claire stands in the middle of the room, and surveys her maternal parent with undisguised vexation. She knows, though he is much too much of a gentleman to have even hinted the fact, that Mrs. Delaval tries Lord Melville's nerves, offends his aristocratic ears by her reckless usage of the Queen's English, and makes him wince

by her ill-bred toadiness to "Rank," and by her frequent allusions to the old lady his mother.Claire believes that the grotesque figure seated before her will be the greatest drawback to her marriage with the man whom she loves, and she grinds the big heel of her silver-embroidered shoe into the velvet-pile carpet in impotent rage."What on earth has made you come down tonight?" she asks sharply."From a sense of duty I owe you," Mrs. Delaval answers in a dignified tone. "And I may say from a duty I owe myself.""What duty do you owe me, Mamma? --and if you do, I wish the duty had kept for the present. I didn't want anyone but Papa at dinner tonight. He goes off to

smoke early, so he does not matter. Lord Melville and I are going to try some songs over."I can sit and listen to you--that is, after I have had it out with him. He'll be pretty astonished, I guess, when the cat's out of the bag.""'Cat's out of the bag '--what do you mean, Mamma?""Mean?--why, that I am going to startle him up. I am not going to stop upstairs instead of taking my proper place in my own drawing-room, and know that he is just amusing himself with my daughter, a-tearing of her heart, while he stops on here to save rent in London, and have his five courses for dinner as comfortably as Battenbergs do at Windsor Castle. No! Claire, you may frown as much as you

like. I have made up my mind, and when my mind is made up, not all the laws of the sweeds and Persians will alter it. Tonight the Right Honourable the Earl of Melville--I read his proper address on one of his letters, yesterday--shall hear what I think on the subject of my eldest daughter and himself, and if he doesn't change his tactics at once, well, I shall think myself a fool."Claire thinks it best to hide her disgust and anger, and try by fair means to rid herself of her mother before Lord Melville enters the room."Please, Mamma darling.""No wheedling, Claire! You only wheedle when you want something. I tell you that you will never catch that young man unless you put out a real strong

bait. I intend to put out that bait, and I guess he'll nibble at once. Not that I care about him myself--there's something common about the plain fronts of his shirts that hurts my eyes. Nobility, I have always heard, have their shirt fronts embroidered and done up splendid, and he hasn't a shirt stud, but a little gold thing which is only gilt, I dare say, and I don't like his manner or his conversation. I like a man who shows that he enjoys visiting in a grand house like this, and having expensive food five times a day, not a man who takes his meals and never says a thank you for their being good. However, I am not going to marry him, so it does not signify what I think."The door opens noiselessly and Melville walks in. True, his shirt front is of the

plainest kind, and only one little unpretending stud adorns it, but he looks the pink of fashion and the mould of form nevertheless--as chic a young nobleman as ever trod Piccadilly and Pall Mall.Dinner is announced at this moment and he marshals in his hostess with all the courtesy imaginable, while the Honourable John appears, just in time to escort his daughter.The meal passes off better than Claire expects, and when it is over the parti carré go back to the drawing-room.Mrs. Delaval has dined liberally, and has consumed a little more than her share of the champagne, and she feels like a giant refreshed and very fit for the tug of war, when Melville returns from his post-prandial smoke.She is in a hurry to open the campaign, for sleep is coming near her lids, and once or twice already the two ostrich tips on her head-gear have nearly nodded down to her ample bosom."May I have the honour of a few words with you, my lord?" she begins solemnly.  "It is a duty I owe to myself, and to my eldest daughter."Melville looks up astonished. He has a guilty conscience too, and feels a little uncomfortable at the ominous word "duty.""Certainly, Mrs. Delaval!" he tries to say jauntily, taking a chair near her, and with his white patrician hands folded on his knee and his head thrown a little back, he half closes his eyes and prepares to listen."Well! it's getting late, my lord, and I'm getting sleepy, so I won't beat round

the bush, but come to the point at once. You admire my girl, now don't you?""Extremely, my dear madam--who wouldn't?""Well, that's a point gained; now do you think my girl is good enough for a fine lady of Society? I mean is she clever enough, can she speak French and German, and sing and play--whatever is required for a lady in the upper circles?""I consider Miss Delaval has every requisite for any position, be it ever so high," he says politely."Then why in goodness' name don't you make her your countess? You have only to say the word, and I'll give her ten thousand a year to begin housekeeping with. After my death, she will come in for thirty thousand a year. There! What do

you think of that, my lord? Not to be sneezed at, is it?""Certainly not, Mrs. Delaval, but you know, however near to one's heart a matter may be, it requires a little reflection. You do me a great favour, and I thank you for it. Of course I know that you must be anxious to see your daughter's future assured, but would it not be more prudent for you to be longer acquainted with me before you decide that it is in my power to make your daughter happy?"He looks up when he says this and catches Claire's eyes--how wistfully they regard him! How pretty she looks, when she is pale and agitated, as she evidently is during this conversation! But his love for Cecil makes him impervious to every other woman's beauty now. He is Cecil's, and

never again will be tempted by the loveliest eyes and lips in the world."It's very nice of you, my lord, to speak so humble. Humility is a cardinal sin, so I think I have heard my husband say, but don't be afraid of Claire not being happy with you. She's one of those girls who have been well brought up and can suit herself to any company, and she's very accomplished too. She can sing Italian songs as well as Adelina--I forget her surname, like something eatable, I know.""Patti," Melville murmurs, putting up his handkerchief to hide an irrepressible smile."Yes, Patty--I knew it was something that went with oysters or shrimps. Well, Claire, though I say it, is just the girl to make you an excellent wife. You know now

the money you would get with her, and as both the old lady and you are rather short just now, I advise you to think over the matter, and let me know what you decide. Good-night, my lord. I hope I haven't said anything that was not my duty towards my daughter--if I have, you must put it down to my being a home bird and unused to grand society.""Good-night, Mrs. Delaval," and then he turns towards Claire a bored face."By Jove!" he says.Two little words, but they contain a very great deal.Claire covers her face with her hands and gives a real sob. The sob is from rage, but he puts it down to sheer humiliation at the maternal parent's outspoken remarks and he pities her; but that is all.

There is no intention or desire on his part for a warm scene number two. Nay, he walks over to a far window, and pushing aside the lace curtains, looks out at the starry night.He is thoroughly perplexed as to his future action. If he repudiates a marriage with Claire, all chance of seeing Cecil will be denied him, and he cannot risk that. Absorbed in his thoughts, he does not even hear Claire's soft footfall on the thick carpet, and the first intimation of her proximity is an ice-cold hand on his, and a low voice close to his ear."You won't let my mother's short-comings prejudice you against me, Lord Melville!" it pleads. "Heaven knows how shocked I am at her words. Oh, think what I must feel to be held up as

an article of exchange and barter. Think of the shame of being flung at your head when--when you do not even care for me, perhaps!"He turns round from his star-gazing, and by the gesture disengages his hand from hers; her touch seems to burn a hole in his flesh. His hand belongs to Cecil, and the man has really a refined and loyal nature that shrinks from any action or word now that his betrothed would be pained by."Let us sit down and talk this matter over quietly," he says, and Claire obeys."One word I beg! It is no reason because my mother has chosen from a misguided notion of duty, to offer me to you, that you should think I am an aider and abettor in her course of action.

Surely, surely you acquit me of such a thing! I have hoped, fondly hoped ever since that evening, that our relations would have been more friendly than they are, but that hope has been only in my heart, I have never breathed it to living soul! Exonerate me, I implore you, from blame, and feel for me that my mother is one of whom I cannot be--proud!"She says it all meekly, humbly, and he does feel for her. It must be terrible for a lady-like girl to have a mother like Mrs. Delaval."I do exonerate you!" he answers earnestly. "I am quite sure that nothing but delicacy of feeling could emanate from anyone like you. And I admire you, but, as I said before, who wouldn't? Will you

forgive me for what passed that evening? Will you try and forget it ? I swear to you on my honour that it was not deliberate on my part. Your face--you --tempted me to an unworthy advantage, and I was powerless to resist! But you do not know how I have repented of an action which must have condemned me in your eyes--you could never guess how dreadfully sorry I am for words which circumstances at present render it impossible to carry out into facts! Miss Delaval, will you be merciful to that one unfortunate departure from a rule I have made in my life since I became a pauper, if I promise you that I will never offend again? There are things one would dearly like to possess, but poverty prevents me," he adds with a smile."Yes, but you need not be poor," she breaks in hastily and unadvisedly.He looks at her gravely."All, yes, I know; but though I a poor--poor as the traditional church rat--I could not make up my mind to sell myself, not even for thirty thousand a year! But you have not told me yet if you forgive that other night--if you will forget it?""I forgive, if there is anything to forgive," she replies in a voice full of pathos, "but I cannot promise to --forget!" and tears of disappointment rush to her eyes."Come!" he says, "don't let anything so paltry as a passing flirtation dim those pretty eyes. It was very nice, but very wrong, but the man you marry will not

know of it. After all, you are not to blame--if, in the bewilderment of the moment, I robbed you of a caress which was but a natural tribute to such beauty as yours! Miss Delaval --Claire, why should we not be friends--if to be lovers is denied us? Do not harden your heart against me, but believe that, under other circumstances, I should have had no dearer wish than to make you my wife!"She listens to it all, and her spirit does not sink or her eyes weep more, for the innate vanity of her nature tells her that this man does care for her, but is too proud to marry a woman richer than himself. She resolves to marry him some day when, by dint of her fascinations, his scruples will be overcome. Meanwhile, she will wait patiently.He speaks again."Well! Won't you shake hands and be friends as the children say? Do," and he holds out his hand with one of the rare smiles that make his mouth as tender as a woman's.Claire looks up at him. She remembers Ferrari's eyes, the liquid eyes, dark as midnight, soft as velvet, and she shudders away from the memory, as the deep blue eyes of this man smile down on her. Under their thrall she would do anything!So she puts out five white fingers that tremble a little and Melville clasps them for a moment."Is it to be peace?" he asks."An armistice rather," she answers.CHAPTER. IX.
A PAIR OF LOVERS."Yea-if I could--would I have you seeMy very love of you filling meAnd know my soul to the quick?"CECIL is quite content to be here, her head on his shoulder, her hands in his clasp, and infinite love in her heart--love as fervent and intense as a southern clime, but as pure as England's undriven snow. Here--far away from the buzz and din of a town, in the deep peace and stillness of the country, with no sound save that of fluttering leaves and murmuring water, and no witness save the birds and the butterflies.Cecil has fallen into a delightful waking dream. In fancy she kneels beside Melville in a grand old church with satin and lace trailing around her and a crown of orange blossoms on her sunny hair, while the song of the wild birds high on the trees sounds like a nuptial hymn. Melville rouses her from love's young dream."What are you thinking of, little one?" he asks, a little dreamily himself--for as he looks down on the fair young face of his love, an inexpressible happiness steals over him--while the green leaves rustle softly on the imperial elms as if they murmur a tender welcome to the sweet wooing of the fickle wind, and just away to the left a few pale holy stars begin to peep at one another in the sky, blinking and winking as if in shyness.She tells her dream in a whisper."Dreams often come by contraries," he says on the spur of the moment, then he repents of his words when he sees her face whiten and her eyes cloud over.And a tinge of sadness may be traced on his own brow. But it is not to be wondered at, for he is going to leave her. This is a tryst stolen with difficulty, while Claire believes he has gone into Exeter to see Lord Barrington, an old school-fellow of his.Melville feels that he cannot well continue a guest at High Towers after Mrs. Delaval's conversation a week or two ago, but he has not broached the subject of his departure yet, dreading the time when Cecil and he will be parted,

and wondering when facilities will be found for meeting again.The time passes unconsciously to the lovers, for lovers they are in the true sense of the word, and the moon rises behind a large fleecy cloud, and its silver light falls through the interlacing boughs, forming a carpet of diamonds for their feet, and bathing them in liquid lustre.A subtle scent of pines comes on the wings of the western breeze--the birds begin to sleepily twitter--the breath of wood violets sweeps by, and all is pleasant and peaceful except Melville's heart.He loves Cecil devotedly, but their future looks very dark.Cecil looks up into his face and notices at once the shadow on it."What is it, Alan ?" she questions

quickly, "are you unhappy, or is it our love that troubles you? If so, forget that you have told me you care for me--and--and I'll never blame you or reproach you!""Silly child! Your love is my dearest possession--I only wish that I was a rich man, so as to be able to surround my darling with all that wealth can purchase, but I am very poor, Cecil! Do you mind that?""I want nothing but you," she whispers."Was it because we shall be poor that you looked so sad just now?""No," he answers, trying to throw a whole throng of unpleasant thoughts from him in a faint sigh. "If a shadow was on my face, it came from that black cloud over there."Cecil starts."Don't say that!" she falters nervously. "I had an old Italian nurse once, and she told me that when a black cloud suddenly veils the pale face of the moon it is an omen sorrow will come to those who look up at it."Melville is essentially a practical man, there is nothing very dreamy or poetic in his nature, so he laughs at her fancies and kisses away the quiver on her mouth."Tropical imaginations are infinitely more fertile than those of a colder clime, my pet--and look, the augury does not hurt us, for there sails Madame Diana without one modest speck to veil her from our profane gaze!""Heaven grant you are right," she answers in a low voice."Keep up a brave spirit always, my own! No one will be able to part us. So long as you care for me and keep true to me, all will go well. I may have to go away soon, Cecil.""Go away!"Her heart sinks like a stone--her breath comes quick and uneven. Her face, even to her lips, grows deathly white--and her little hands tremble so, that even his warm grasp cannot still them."Only for a little while, dear love! I shall come back soon--I must--I could not live now without seeing you, and kissing you! You must not fret, darling, but think of me always and look forward to the blessed day when we shall never have to part again!""Bell, it is for myself, my very own self, that he loves me! Had I possessed money I might have a doubt--what is, if anyone could be so wicked as to doubt him. But I am sure--sure that he loves me as much as I love him! Bell, do tell me if it is all real! Did you think he would ever give me a thought even? That day when we saw him and Claire riding together--did you ever, ever dream that he would love me?""Yes, I felt it was you," Bell says in her outspoken fashion."But I ought not to have met him so, it seems just as if I had put myself in his way."As he does not seem to think it was wrong, you need not be unhappy.""Unhappy, Bell!" and Cecil laughs a

bright silvery laugh. "It appears to me that there is no such thing as unhappiness in the world!""Cis, have you told Lord Melville what I wanted you to tell?" Bell asks, in a solemn little voice, and her face is very grave."About what? Do you mean about Claire not liking me, and wishing to keep me in the background? No, there's time enough for that when we have nothing pleasanter to talk about--but when will that be, I wonder?" she says, with a radiant smile. "You look very serious, Bell, darling. What is it?""Nothing--only I was thinking.""About what?""Does Lord Melville intend to tell Claire that he is engaged to you?""Perhaps. Why should he conceal anything?""Cis! She loves him!"The words fall like a thunderbolt on Cecil's ear, and her pulses seem to stand still."Oh, Bell, don't say that, for mercy's sake!""It is the chatter of the house, Cis. I have watched them too unseen--and--""Yes!"Cecil's breath comes in a little gasp, a dreadful, dreadful feeling creeps over her which she does not understand herself. Other and more experienced women might know it is a feeling of incipient jealousy jealousy which is "cruel as the grave.""Claire is very clever, Cis!""I know--but if she is?""As I said before, Claire loves Lord Melville. She is very beautiful, and I have read that beauty has great power."Cecil remembers the hateful black cloud of the evening before that veiled the moon.Oh, can there be any truth in the Italian superstition? she wonders. She turns so faint that for a moment she cannot speak."What could Claire do, Bell?" she asks at last, in a low, husky tone, very different to the bright ringing voice of half-an-hour back."How can anyone tell what someone who is not very good can do?" Bell answers with the wisdom that drops from the mouths of babes and sucklings."How you frighten me," Cecil cries, her heart beating fast. "I was so happy, so happy --and now! How can I guard against evil? But surely Claire could not be so cruel as to come between me and--him! What can I do?""Keep everything secret.""But how?""Easy enough. There is the old way of seeing him, if you must see him.""Yes, yes, I must see him! I cannot live without.""Ask Lord Melville not to breathe a word about you!""I can't do that without giving a reason. He would think me deceitful, underhand. But what have I to fear after all? What could happen so long as he loves me? He is big enough and strong

enough to hold his own and fight my battles too!"Cecil laughs and blushes, and running to her own room, brings back the cherished picture of her early school days."Look, Bluebell! Who is Bayard--sans pear et sans reproche--like?"It is really a striking likeness. There are the same grave eyes, the straight features, the close clustering hair, the tall, stately figure."Don't you see the resemblance, Bell?""It is like Lord Melville.""Call him Alan, 'Lord Melville' is so formal, and he will soon be your cousin, you know.""I couldn't call him Alan," the girl says shyly, "at least not for a very long while."But Cecil scarcely hears her. She gazes

at "Bayard" adoringly, and is so full of her own happiness."His love is a sufficient shield. No one could do me an injury now, and if Claire is beautiful--well--I must be beautiful too, for you know, Bell, no one hardly can tell us apart.""I could. I could tell it by instinct, if I was blindfold," Bell replies, in her queer way."How?""Because I could feel the difference of good and evil.""I believe it is your love for me that makes you anxious, darling Bell.""It maybe--anyway, it's no use making you worried and unhappy. I have made you so already, I am afraid.""No! I can't be unhappy, a little while

ago I had nothing to lose--to day I have nothing to gain, so long as my Bayard cares for me. In Alan's love, Heaven has given me everything.""And if Claire takes it away from you?""Hush! For God's sake, don't say such words, it would be death, I believe!" she whispers, with pallid cheeks and quivering mouth."Do you care for him so very much then?" Bell asks, tremulously clasping her mites of hands in her agitation."A little while ago, I could not have told you how much I care for him, for I did not know he gave me a thought--I felt so dreadfully ashamed of the love I had allowed to spring up, unchecked and even encouraged. But now I need not mind,

though I feel the blood rush into my face even when I think of him. I love Alan better than my life, Bluebell, for what would life be without him?""Love is a very strange thing," Bell thinks to herself, as a little later she lies hidden away on a rustic bench, behind a big group of laurustinus. "I wonder whether, when Lord Melville talks, Cis feels hot and cold, as if--as if she was being carried away on angels' wings to Heaven just as I did when Lohengrin was singing that night. Shall I never hear him again, I wonder?" she says half aloud.Her voice is curiously wistful, her little face grows sorrowful, but in a moment she rises hastily and flies towards the house."I'll ask Cis to let me speak to Lord Melville. I hope she will, for I am sure--sure that if Claire finds out anything she will do something dreadful and break Cis's heart--"Meanwhile, Claire has locked herself up in her room--she walks up and down with her hands so tightly clenched that the nails hurt the soft white flesh. She loves Melville so much that to win him she believes she could commit any crime. A certain success, she thinks, has already crowned her efforts to gain his heart and, in spite of the past, the irremediable past, she swears to herself that happiness and content shall be hers.Who knows, save herself, of the marriage in an out-of-the-way Brussels faubourg--mockery of a marriage, she calls it now. She is safe as far as Ferrari is concerned--for months. In those

months she will win the man she adores, and once "Lady Melville," who will believe a poor foreigner--a miserable singing-master--f he swears over and over again--that she is his wife?It is a cruel fate that places in such a woman's hands the bliss or misery of Cecil's life.But it is not the first time, nor will it be the last, that the daughters of Heth wield a successful warfare with their better and purer sisterhood.CHAPTER X.
"SHE WILL TROUBLE YOU NO MORE.""Si to savais comme je t'aime,Bien sur--bien sur--tu m'aimerais!""BIEN sûr--bien sûr--tu m'aimerais!' Always the same old refrain, Marco. You'll go off your head, if you don't look out."Deep in reverie, Marco starts as Prince Maurice Spagnoletti enters the room, and sits down opposite him. The man has altered terribly since Spagnoletti saw him three months ago. A strange, dreamy, abstracted look has settled on his dark eyes, and a white line of pain goes round his mouth, and has grown habitual to it. Even in the pauses of conversation his

spirit seems to wander away far from the present.He likes to sit and brood, he loves to be by himself. Claire's face is always beside him, her eyes look into his own, her voice sounds on his ear like the echo of some music he had revelled in years and years ago.Marco has a nature unlike most men's. He is steadfast and loyal unto death, and though he has been driven like chaff before the wind, by the caprice of a heartless woman, though he has suffered torture by her long silence, her curious concealment of her whereabouts, the woman he considers his wife in the eyes of God has never fallen from the niche in his breast where he placed her to love and worship for ever and ever. He has never spoken of her,

save to his best friend and old schoolfellow, Spagnoletti; even to him he has been somewhat reticent, and Spagnoletti, believing that speaking of the subject nearest Marco's heart will be a relief to him, reverts at once to it."Marco, you have never really told me about your masquerading at Brussels. All I understand is that you carried out your romantic programme of looking for a rara avis--otherwise, a woman, young, beautiful, and above all, disinterested! Well? You succeeded?""Yes! I found her--a girl with an angel's face, with a child's guileless spirit, with a woman's loving heart. Maurice, I swear to you she is so good, so pure, so different to any other woman I have known, that the very caresses I laid on her lips

brought with them a feeling of self-reproach. It seemed like desecration to me! We loved one another--we met often alone. She was guarded only by her innocence and the reverence I had for her--the reverence I would give to a saint. Yet--she left me as pure as she was the first moment I looked on her. True, I married her, believing it would bind her more closely to me, that the knowledge she was my wife would keep her true; but it was really a marriage in name only and an informal marriage--for our faiths are different, and no Protestant church ratified our vows. Well--!"He pauses."She left you, telling you where to find her in England?"The red blood surges over the other man's face."No! You see she is under age. Her people are poor, and anxious she should make a good marriage.""Good marriage! and are not you good enough? English parents must have odd notions on the subject if your position and name are not high enough for a middle-class girl, or even a 'daughter of a hundred earls'!""Yes--but Claire does not know more about me than that I was singing-master at the school, and that I worked for my bread! I wanted her to love me for myself, and so she did!"She would have loved you ten times as much if she had known all about you! Women are wonderfully interested creatures--you don't know them as I do!""She is not interested--or why did she bind herself by marrying me--knowing me to be a nobody?""Well--go on--your wife left you--haven't you seen her since?""Yes, we met by accident in London--she was more lovely and loving than ever, she promised to tell her father and mother of our love, and to ask their consent to our marriage; poor child--of course she dared not tell them that half a marriage already existed. She is very young and timid. And she made me promise that I would wait patiently till she wrote to me to come. I have waited patiently--but--He pauses again and Spagnoletti sees his cheek grow white and a tortured look steal into his eyes."And have you heard from Madame lately?"Marco does not answer for a moment--then he says in a hoarse voice:"Yes, a few days ago.""And what does she say!""Oh, Maurice, you torture me. Man! do you know what it is to long for a thing--to yearn for a presence night and day--to live only for another sight of the face that has bewitched you? And to know that an accursed promise keeps you to a living death! I heard from my wife a few days ago--she tells me her people will not hear of our love for each other, that I must wait--wait till she is of age--for thirteen months, and then our marriage shall be completed without their consent. Heaven bless her for

saying that. It is all the consolation I have.""Thirteen months--it's a long probation to give a roan! Take my advice, Marco. As you have given your word to wait and not to go to her till the given date, you must keep it. But do not lead this life--you are ruining your health, and eating your heart out--for what?--for a woman who has not the real stuff in her--a woman who hesitates between the husband she loves, and the fear of braving her family's wrath!--or if you cannot live without her save in this wretched condition of heart and brain, sit down and write to her father and mother --tell them who you are, and--I am a poor man, Marco, but I'll bet you half my income that they will not only consent to their daughter being your wife, but will

kill the fatted calf in celebration of the wedding!""I cannot do that even if I would--I do not know where to find her.""But she wrote to you--was there no address?""Only a post-office in some English town, and she was leaving in a few days."Spagnoletti shrugs his shoulders, and walking up to the window begins whistling softly."Don't, Maurice, I can't forget while I hear that song.""What song? Good Heavens, is the accursed song running in my head too? Beg pardon, mon ami, I did not know what I was whistling, but why have those words such an attraction for you? When I

came here before, ' Bien ssûr--bien sûr--tu m'aimerais,' saluted my ears.""It is the first song I taught her. She sang it at first coldly, as if the words had no meaning for her. It was I who taught her what love was--she had, like Undine, no soul--no man's power had touched a chord of her being till she saw me and then!--my God, Maurice! Is not life--Heaven--when a man and a woman love one another--utterly? When, absorbed in one another--they forget that aught else exists save themselves in the whole world?""Marco! does there happen to be any one in Florence who has caught your fancy at all? Anyone, loving, lovely, who could make you forget the past and brighten up the present?"Marco laughs. Such a laugh it is--with

utter desolation and weariness running through it--even to listen to it makes the other man's heart grow sick.It is a laugh that is born of disbelief in one's kind, that comes from thorough hopelessness."You don't really know me, Maurice. No woman living--were she lovely as Venus, pure as an angel--would make me forget the time which was the nearest approach to Heaven that a man can reach--no woman--not one-could fill Claire's place--ay--shall fill the place--which is hers while I live! But why ask such a question?--you must know I am in no humour for banter now.""I asked because I hoped there was such a woman, and if there was, I should say to you with all my heart--go in and

win! Thrust all care and trouble from you--throw memory to the four winds--for the cloud that has shadowed your life has a rift in it. Life will wear rosy colours once more, for you are a--free man!""A free man?" echoes Marco dreamily.
"Yes--a free man--for she will trouble you no more!""Trouble me no more! What do you mean, Maurice?""That Madame knows her marriage with a singing-master was informal, and she will never claim you as her husband! I am a man of the world, and I have had a good deal of experience about the sex. No--don't look as if you were going to murder me, Marco--one must open the wound to heal it--and I tell you again that no woman would write as your wife has

written, if she loved you one whit! Take my word for it, she is not what your romantic fancy has painted, or, for her own suffering's sake, she could not live without letting you know all that is in her heart--without hearing all that is in yours!""If you were anyone else, Maurice, I should fling you out of my door for daring to impugn my dear one's truth and loyalty. To you I say, let this matter be a sealed book between us. I know you mean it for my good, that you feel my trouble almost as if it were your own, but, Maurice, you do not know her. Only one word more--never, I beseech you, desecrate my love for my wife, by speaking to me of another woman!"When Spagnoletti is gone, Marco sinks

back in his chair and covers his face with his hands. A long, long time he remains thus--the conversation with his friend has raked up each incident of his love episode. In spite of himself Spagnoletti's words have raised a doubt of Claire's affection, and cruel thoughts make him dizzy and faint. Suddenly he jumps up and, going to the buffet, pours out half a tumbler of brandy which he drinks to the dregs. A little later he runs down the stairs whistling:
"Il balen del suo sorriso."
and goes on his way to dine with it Duca Rutiano and Spagnoletti at the Caffé di Roma.CHAPTER XI.
BLUEBELL'S MISSION."List all who love and choose himSee love, and so refuse him,For all who find him lose him, But all have found him fair."BLUEBELL is the quaintest and most original of mortals--a child almost in years and looks, but with the dreamy temperament of one double her age. But in spite of her dreaminess, her love of fairy lore and flowers and nightingales, she has a deal of "character." She is faithful to tenacity in her attachments, as true as steel in her nature and loyal to the backbone.She adores Cecil, she would starve for

her without one murmuring word. Cecil is the one perfect human creature she knows except her father. Cecil is a lily of purity, a star of beauty, and to serve her Bell would walk barefooted to the end of the world.Now in the full swing and security of a first passion, Cecil firmly looks on Melville as a very tower of strength, but with a strange prescience of evil, which often goes hand in hand with original temperaments. Bell resolves to settle matters for herself. Her unparalleled devotion to her cousin and her utter distrust of Claire aggravates her presentiments into positive fear, and goads her to immediate action. So tossing on her hat carelessly, without so much as a look at herself in the glass, she steps down to the grounds in the dusk, so as to

waylay Melville when he takes his ordinary stroll with his cigar an hour before dinner.She has not long to wait. He emerges from the laurustinus path and starts as the little slender figure bars his progress. Bell looks like a spirit in the gloaming, her face is very pale and her great eyes shine like a couple of stars."I have come," she says catching her breath, "because I want to ask a favour of you, Lord Melville.""Do you? Ask away then; there is nothing on earth I would not grant you, Miss Bluebell, but first let us sit down here," and he points to a rustic bench under a weeping ash, the long trails of which almost hide it from view."Cecil has told me of---" she pauses

shyly--love to her is such a sacred thing, that she feels like a little traitor to Cecil when she alludes to her engagement."Cecil has told you I love her very dearly; there is no secret in that, so you need not hesitate.""That is just what I have come to ask; will you let it be a secret from everybody, especially from my sister?"Melville stares a little in perplexity, and to say the truth he is not over-pleased. Bell has taken his fancy especially by her apparent honesty of purpose and free, out-spoken ways, which are yet innocent as a child's, and now the little thing's words savour of mystery.For a moment his old cynicism returns to him and he believes that all women are alike--a mass of deception."Have you come as a messenger from Cecil? Does she desire all this extra-ordinary secrecy?" he asks in a cold voice.Bell catches the inflection in his tone and loyally hastens to reinstate Cis in his good opinion, at all hazard to herself."No! oh no. I asked her permission, or rather I begged her to write to you and make the request before you saw Claire at dinner tonight--but Cis wouldn't.""Why not?""Because she hates deceit and concealment. She is an angel and she cannot believe in wickedness.""Then why should you ask it? I am sure you don't know anything about the wicked ways of the world. Tell me your

reason for wishing me to hide that which I really glory in.""I can't explain, and you would not understand if I did. I know that your happiness as well as Cecil's depends on it.""What a queer young person you are, Miss Bluebell! and a sphinx as well, for I can't even guess anything from your face. But do you know that never in my life have I found any good come out of a secret, and you see I have lived years and years."She glances at him and shakes her head. He does not look very old in spite of his years and years. His close, crisp hair has no single line of silver, and his brow is as smooth as an infant's.She is evidently not much impressed by

the superiority of age or the superiority of his wisdom at this moment."True, upon my honour," he goes on, "there is nothing like open-handed dealing and straightforward ways; a secretive nature is horrid in my opinion, and a secret is a very bad thing.""What has this attachment sprung from but a lot of secret meetings?" she asks with a mischievous laugh.Melville laughs too. He rather likes being posed by this bit of a girl, with her little white face and solemn blue eyes that seem to go straight as an arrow into the very soul of the person she addresses.There is something comical yet weird about her. And yet she is marvellously pretty, with her delicate features and her fragile look."There was a reason for the meetings being secret," he says."I know. It was because you could not talk to Cecil before Claire, without vexing my sister.""Exactly, and under the circumstances it was reason sufficient, for I did not wish Cecil to have hard things said to her, but now that I have made up my mind to marry Cecil whenever she will marry me, I care nothing about giving offence.""Anyway, Claire has no right to your confidence," she flashes out with an impetuosity which seems strange in her."But she is Cecil's cousin--and besides, my dear old friend Delaval ought to be told at once.""Oh, Lord Melville, I beg of you to let

the thing remain a secret for the present at any rate. Papa never interferes much in family matters. He is out so much, you know, and besides, he is quite under Claire's rule like the rest of us. Do believe me, that it is far better for you and Cis to keep your own counsel.""But everything must be made known soon--I can't be kept out of my happiness long. I would do anything to oblige you, but I must tell you that there are reasons--powerful reasons," and Melville looks red and uncomfortable, "why Miss Delaval should know of my engagement to Cecil!"Bell throws a queer glance at him."I understand!" she says."You?""Yes.""Of course you do. I begin to think you are a cross between a witch and a snowdrop. And what are my reasons?""May I say?""By all means.""You won't be angry?""I couldn't be angry with you.""Well, then, Claire thinks you have no right to care for Cis. She is so beautiful, and is going to be so rich some day, that she believes all men must fall in love with her--and I suppose many do!"He colours again, and for the life of him feels like a culprit under the girl's clear, truthful eyes, and he thanks Providence that she does not know the full measure of his folly, the madness that had crossed his life."I may tell you one thing, Lord Melville, that Cis has never been treated kindly by Claire.""In what way?""Every way. Claire dislikes her, and is jealous of her. When she hears that Cis has won your liking, her rage will be too awful.""The girl who is to be my wife must be afraid of no one!" he says, with all the proud blood of the Melvilles flashing in his eyes. "I will take care that no one dares to vex her.""Men don't war with women, you know! Claire will make you feel her anger, too.""I think you are a little hard on your sister. She is certainly as beautiful a girl as ever walked the earth, and perhaps this

makes her imperious, but she never speaks unkindly of Cecil--she never mentions her, in fact.""Of course, she would like never to see Cecil or hear of her again.""Hush! You are quite a baby yet, or you would have learnt the wisdom of never letting your feelings run into unfounded prejudices. Remember she is your sister."Bluebell rises quietly from the bench and pulls her hat over her eyes, and he can see that she is half crying from disappointment."I thought it best to come," she murmurs sorrowfully. "I hoped you would listen to my words, but I haven't done a bit of good.""Don't look so dreadfully triste. You

have, at any rate, done no harm. How earnest you are about your request.""And yet you won't grant it!" she says, looking up at him with big, wistful eyes.I would grant it, but I do not think I should be justified in passing here as a free man, when I belong absolutely heart and hand to Cecil. It appears to me somewhat in the light of dishonour and treachery to Miss Delaval.""Still and still, I beg of you not to mention this matter. I know you will be glad by-and-bye for Cecil's sake.""I'll think over it, and speak to Cecil tomorrow. Will you tell her to be sure and meet me near the waterfall--I shall eat my heart out with disappointment if she does not come."Bell glides away in the dusk, and he stands and watches her."Queer little girl, but as good and staunch as steel," he thinks, and he walks slowly towards the house. "It strikes me that the lovely Claire is not quite so saccharine as I fancied. I wonder why all this secrecy is required. Surely Cecil has nothing to be afraid of--nothing that Miss Delaval could say against her could influence me! My little darling! If an angel came down from Heaven and told me you were not all my fancy paints you, I wouldn't believe it--""Do you know it is very late, Lord Melville?" a voice says from the stone steps. He cannot distinguish the form, but he knows the voice well enough. "What have you been doing--taking a

stroll with anyone?" and there is a suggestion of suspicion in the tone."With my cigar," he answers carelessly. "I told Bell deceit was a
bad thing!" he thinks.CHAPTER XII.
BAYARD'S CONFESSION."Mine arms are close about thine head,My lips are fervent on thy face,And where my kiss hath fed,Thy flower-like blood leaps redTo the kissed place!"CLAIRE is essentially vain, but not vain enough to persuade herself that Lord Melville is really in love with her. Her face, her voice, the hour--all these had goaded him into a moment of folly, but she, who had been taught by Marco Ferrari what desperate love is, feels that if she ever becomes Countess of Melville, it will be by her own skill and savoir faire. Notwithstanding her love affair, she is not

impervious to the charm of fine garments, and today she has that very important business on hand--in most women's estimation--a long interview with her dressmaker in Exeter. Taking a hasty breakfast she drives off to the station, and no sooner do Cecil and Bell find out she is gone, than they rush downstairs like a couple of children.The day is deliciously fine, a soft breeze, yet in its babyhood, comes whispering through the elm branches, making their tall heads wave backwards and forwards like plumed warriors guarding the domain. The sky is clear as crystal, the flowers--harbingers of summer--send out great whiffs of perfume, in gratitude to Dame Nature for having made them so marvellously fair and sweet. Big dragon-flies

with filmy wings, flit like jewels from blossom to blossom, and altogether it is a wonderfully beautiful world--so Cecil thinks as she surveys it through the rose-coloured spectacles that Cupid has slipped on her eyes.The Honourable John sits at the breakfast-table. In one hand he holds the Sporting Life--the old companion of his bachelor days--with the other he absently breaks off bits of toast, which instead of conveying to his mouth, he lays down again on his plate, while Bell--taking advantage of his chronic condition--steals the morsels for her pet sparrows.
"Dust unto dust--that must be must,If you can't get crumbs--you'd best eat crust,"
she says laughing to one of her passerine friends who perches tamely on the sill,

staring at her with a pair of wise little eyes.The Honourable John has grown greyer and more wrinkled since he has become a rich man. He is not more sociable than of yore, and, with the exception of his niece and his youngest child, he seldom addresses anyone--even Melville, favourite as he is with his host, sees little of him.Bell, tired of ministering to the wants of the sparrows, steals up behind his chair, blindfolding him with her small hands. She is his pet, and, in Claire's absence, the two grow very demonstrative in their affections."Kiss me, Bell, and take your arms away--you are strangling me, child.""Only with affection," and she hugs him

closer. "Isn't it nice when Claire is away, papa?""Hush, she is your sister, little one, and Claire is a wonderful creature, and so handsome. Titian would have gone mad over her. I was thinking what a splendid couple she and Melville would make!"Cecil who is hanging out of the open window, turns a white face round, and Bell frowns unmistakably."Is Lord Melville going to marry Claire?" she says."I don't know. Both your mother and I should like it, and it would be a first-rate match for him, as Claire will be so well off by and bye--the Melvilles are so very poor, you know.""And is Lord Melville likely to sell himself?" Bell persists."Why not?--if he cares for Claire. Of course, if he doesn't, he would be more interested and mercenary than I think him.""I don't believe you know a thing about the matter, dear," Bell
says positively. "You have heard mamma talk about it, and that's
all. Now Cecil has gone up-stairs, I'll tell you a secret. Papa, I hate keeping things from you, but it is a real secret and you must promise
faithfully to keep it.""I promise, but stay a minute, I just want to see the betting on the Lincolnshire Handicap--Grey Leg, Le Nicham, Victor Wild--100 to 7, I'll have a couple of sovs on him--well, puss, what's the secret?""Lord Melville is going to marry--Cecil,!""Cecil?""Yes.""Won't your mother be angry?""Are you?""No, not a bit. It proves that I was right in thinking Melville an upright fellow, with no mercenary ideas. Cecil is a lucky young woman.""Now remember it is a profound secret; don't let it out for goodness' sake in one of your absent fits!""No fear; I always do what you want, Bell. You can't say I am a tyrannical parent.""You are the dearest, best old parent in the world," she answers lovingly, with another big kiss, and then she runs off to find her cousin.Cecil has sunk into an easy chair in her

own room. She has been crying her eyes out, and looks ashamed of herself as Bell comes in."Oh, Bell, you heard what Uncle John said! I feel a wretch--a good-for-nothing wretch! How can I let him marry me, when I haven't a penny in the world, while he can marry Claire with all her money? And Uncle John said the Melvilles are so poor. It is base of me, selfish of me, Bell. I'll give him up. I shall never forgive myself if I stand in his way to wealth and the luxury he has been accustomed to, but it is hard--very hard," she says."Cis, I am surprised at you!" Bell says in a solemn voice. "Do you consider it right for a man to sell himself? No, and no more does Lord Melville. He has chosen between you and Claire, and I

think you are most ungrateful to Providence!"Cecil dries her tears at this."Ungrateful! oh, if you only knew how grateful I am, how much I think of his goodness in caring for me! and I can give him nothing in return--nothing but my whole, whole heart.""You have made your eyes red, and you don't look half as pretty as usual, and you have to meet him this evening, you know.""I wonder if I am as pretty as Claire. I should like to be for his sake," she murmurs passionately, "but you see Claire is so much more brilliant and fashionable. I wish I did not look so childish, perhaps I should have more power over his heart if I looked older.""You have plenty of power over him, Cis, darling, and you must keep it; you must not throw him into Claire's hands, from silly ideas about your poverty, if you do you will ruin his happiness, for I know what Claire is. I know she is not true, Cis, and if a woman is not true, she is worth nothing."Cecil grows more satisfied as she listens, and by and bye the two
go out in the garden, and the fresh air removes the traces of tears
from Cecil's face, and she looks lovelier than ever as she remembers
that there is a delicious hour in prospect after the sun goes
down."I was afraid you might not be able to come," Melville says, and there is such a

ring of happiness in his voice that Cecil feels she is right in not giving him his freedom. "I have been out at the golf links all day, and so have not caught a glimpse even of my darling's face."Cecil's heart thrills under his words, and she clasps his arm unconsciously closer to her, but he feels it and he stoops and kisses her."You do love me, my sweet! I am sure you do!"To this she answers nothing, her heart is too full for words, but she looks up at him with such adoring eyes, that words are quite unnecessary.Suddenly his glance falls on her right hand. The moon has risen, and its light touches the third finger, on

which a large opal burns and flashes prismatic hues."Why, what is this?" he asks, in surprise, seizing her hand rather roughly. Cecil is not given to jewellery, and this costly ring is very much out of place with her simple dress and child-like appearance."I found it," she says quietly. I found it in a corner of a drawer this evening just before I came out. I thought perhaps it might belong to Lady Melville or some friend who had stayed with her. No one here owns it--at least, I have never seen it before.""Never?" he asks a little sternly. "It is odd such a costly ring should be a waif, that no one should have made an effort to find it.  No, it is

not my mother's, she eschews jewels of all sorts, and thinks them temptations to vanity sent by the Devil. Take it off, Cecil, and let me examine it properly."She draws it off her finger at once, but something in his tone has made her nervous, and her features look agitated and her cheeks pale. He glances at her suspiciously. He strikes a fusee and regards the ring carefully."There is an 'M' on it," he says."Strange--but it is familiar to me--the opal is of unusual size and shape, and the setting is Florentine. I have seen it--or its double--on Prince Colonna's finger, when I was in Italy three years ago. Strange how this ring comes here--some rascally valet must have stolen it, and

been punished for his dishonesty by losing it!"He gives her back the ring, saying, "Don't wear it," and she drops it into her pocket. Then Melville forgets about it, and begins talking of a thousand things that draw them into closer knowledge of each other."My heart went out straight to you, love," he says in a low voice which wears its softest accent now. "The first moment I saw you sealed my fate. But I ought to make a free confession of everything--may I?"She smiles in assent, and nestles closer to his shoulder."I did not wish to give way to the feelings you awoke in me--I struggled
against them even, for I felt that they were

against commonsense and self-interest. More than that, I knew my mother would be disappointed. You see, darling, I am a poor man, and money is a great desideratum, so great a desideratum that I am ashamed to say I had fully made up my mind never to marry any but a wealthy woman, and when Delaval invited me here and suggested that he already liked me as a son, I had half a mind to try my chance with Claire Delaval. She is very beautiful, and more fascinating than most women, so that after all I ought not to have found my wooing very distasteful!"Cecil turns away a shade further from him, and her little fingers relax their clasp, feeling which, Melville flings one arm round her, and with

just the shadow of a smile on his lips, goes on."At first, darling child--may I tell you the whole, whole truth?"She bends her head, and even by moonlight he can see the cruel crimson blood sweep right over the delicate face, and a dreadfully piteous quiver at the corners of her mouth."At first--I am afraid--I was rather taken by her, not, however, without a serious feeling of disappointment meeting me at every turn. She is wonderfully lovely and intelligent, but I like something more tender and womanly and refined, something at any rate, not quite so imperial and prononcée, even what the  French call bizarre at times. Still, if things had gone on as they commenced,

if I had never had that game of tennis, I dare say Mr. and Mrs. Delaval's wish might have been accomplished."Cecil turns her face full upon him as he says this--her face is still very white, and there is a mute question in her eyes.Melville understands it perfectly.Poor little Cecil is jealous."Not because I loved her, you know, but from a wretched mercenary motive, and from the idea that people have that love is sure to come after marriage, provided one's wife is passably good-looking and not a shrew. But that game of tennis played the--""The what?" asks Cecil innocently."Don't be shocked, my lily--the Devil, I was going to say. I found that Delaval's niece was all my fancy painted a woman

should be, and I succumbed. Still the contest was rather a hard one; my dear proud old mother has but one desire on earth, it is to see High Towers in my possession once more, and I felt that my love for you was in absolute opposition to her wish, so I tried to resist the influence your sweet face had over me bravely for awhile. I flung myself recklessly into the society of Miss Delaval, I strove to force myself into love for her--I admired her without reservation, and finally--""Finally?" whispers poor Cecil with tremulous lips."I hardly dare tell you, my child. Bell said truly that you are a lily in your pure whiteness. Still, there should be no secrets between us if we are to be man and wife. We must bare our hearts completely

to one another, or there will be an end to love. Can you listen to my folly--I might call it dishonour even--without taking away from me the glory of my life--your love? Remember, Cecil, that at the time I speak of, I had never held you in my arms, or touched your lips!""Tell me everything, except that you will ever again care for anyone but me!"She says it gently, piteously, there is not a flash of jealousy or anger in her face, her dove eyes full of tears, but brimful of worship for him as well, although she knows now that her Bayard is not sans peur et sans réproche."My darling! Thank God that women's lives are not like men's. Their past is usually clear and unsullied, no shadow of

remorse or regret hangs over their future. If a woman came to me stained by another man's caresses, I would fling her aside, even her memory would not find a place in my heart. Yet I am asking you to forgive me something, asking you to forget even, something that occurred. Heaven knows it left no impression on me, save a good deal of shame and self-scorn. If I could, I would wipe away the thing from the tablets of memory willingly."He pauses, glances at her, then with the red blood surging over his face, goes on hurriedly:"One evening Miss Delaval and I were alone. That, however, was not extra-ordinary, for somehow--either by accident or design--our evenings were seldom anything but tête-à-têtes. This identical

evening, your cousin surpassed herself in beauty, and I had never admired her so much before. Her toilette was perfection, and enhanced the loveliness of her skin and her figure, and more than all, there was a soft light in her eyes, a soft look on her face. The room was full of warmth and fragrance. She was full of warmth too, her very words dropped slowly and tenderly, her singing was exquisite, her manner bewildering, and her touch--"Cecil starts visibly--the pallor of death creeps over her features even to her half-parted lips--the little fingers Melville still clasps tremble as if palsy had struck them, and her eyes widen into a scared look.Melville hesitates, but a strong feeling urges him to go on. He is determined that nothing in his past shall rise up

like a grim Nemesis on some future day to mar the happiness with which Cecil will crown his life. But he loves her tenfold as he notes how her feelings for him have the power to blanch her cheek and chill her whole frame."Her touch had an influence over me--in one moment of blind unreasoning feeling I yielded to that influence, and saying words that I ought never to have uttered--I kissed her."Not a murmur--not a reproach breaks from her colourless lips--but Cecil shivers a little, and a half sob breaks from her.Melville bends his face close to hers."It was only my lips that were given her--my own! The heart in my breast was yours--even then. The feelings I had for you were dominant over all. It was

that which made me recoil with almost repulsion from the mad caress. Miss Delaval is clever, beautiful, bewildering, but I do not care for her. It is you whom I love with heart and soul, body and strength."As he says this, the colour flies back to her cheek, and a faint smile to her mouth. She never thinks of doubting him, especially not now, with his grave blue eyes looking down into her own."Cecil, you told me I was like a picture of Bayard.""Yes.""And now, since you have found out I am not sans reproche?""I love you all the same," she whispers."Thank God for that," he answers fervently.He tells her of Bell's waylaying him the evening before."I cannot understand her wishing all this secrecy--she is quite a paradox with her childish manners and ways--and her solemn eyes and aphorisms."Cecil laughs."We used to tease Bell and tell her that her eyes and her talk were as solemn and wise as an owl's. Even now, Claire looks upon her as quite a child, and disapproves of her having opinions of her own.""Which she has, and holds to, I fancy. I should like to gratify her whim and keep our own counsel, if I could.""Oh, Alan, this secret way of meeting has been so delicious I should love to let it be a little longer," she says shyly."But surely you would wish your relatives to be told soon--wouldn't you?""No! I believe it would be better if no one knew yet," and then, fearful he should think her deceitful, she grows embarrassed.A cloud passes over his face and he regards her in amazement--her embarrassment troubles him, for he is naturally rather suspicious and jealous.What on earth can it mean? he wonders--her strange, disturbed manner.There is such a wistful look in her eyes that he is softened in spite of his doubts."What makes you so nervous, my child? You have nothing to be frightened of--we need no one's consent to our love,

and I don't think any earthly power could part us now!"Cecil is not quite so sure since she heard of that episode with Claire--she has lost confidence--not in him--but in herself. Claire is such a paragon of beauty and so worldly-wise that, if she knew about Melville and herself, she would move Heaven and earth to separate them."Still, don't tell anyone," she pleads earnestly. "Claire will set you against me--she will tell you things perhaps which will take away your love from me, Alan--oh, don't tell anyone!""This is very strange," Melville says again, his face grave to sternness."At any rate give me time to think what is best," she suggests in a low voice, frightened at his expression.Melville shakes off his doubts as he regards her. There could not be any arrière pensée behind that candid brow--that truthful look."I won't tell anyone for an eternity, sweet--since you wish it. Now smile upon me--I feel like a poor fellow out in the cold when you look like that."She smiles upon him at once, and smiles with such childlike love and trust, that she is reinstated in his heart."Claire will be coming back," she says presently, "and I had better go back to the house. Alan!""Yes, my darling.""Shall you pass your evenings alone with Claire again?""No--but if I do--you can trust me,

Cecil. I shall be sans réproche for ever now."She is silent for a moment."Child, have I shaken your faith in me for always by my confession?" he asks reproachfully."No--oh, no!--but---""But what?""Claire is so beautiful, and she loves you.""How do you know that?""Because it would not be possible for her to do otherwise."Melville bursts out laughing."My little sweetheart, don't go and stick me on a pedestal for all women to fall down and worship. Heaven knows I am no Paladin, and besides--even if I could evoke love, I don't want it--except from

you. Oh, my darling, you little know how you have crept into my heart to the exclusion of everybody else.""Have I--really and truly?""Really and truly. Joking apart, don't you know you are just as beautiful as Miss Delaval, and ten times more beautiful in expression? She would do for a Jael or a Delilah--a couple of amiable women I dare say you know nothing about--but you, my white-souled pet, have a face like our blessed Madonna."And Melville crosses himself devoutly, for he is an earnest Roman Catholic--earnest in his religion as he is in most things.Cecil's eyes light up with pleasure at his words, and now the smiles come in shoals, dimpling her mouth."Good-bye, Alan--till tomorrow."Gathering her in his arms, he says "good-bye" on her lips.She runs back by one path to the house while he slowly pursues another and more circuitous one, whistling softly as he walks. He would not be so light-hearted perhaps, if he had marked a malignant look on a woman's face, a few minutes before--a woman dressed in black, who had crept stealthily behind a laurustinus bush to listen to the sweet words he spoke to Cecil--to mark his passionate good-bye.END OF VOLUME II.PRINTED BY KELLY AND CO. LIMITED, 182, 183, 184, HIGH
HOLBORN, W.C., AND KINGSTON-ON-THAMES.