He could bear it no longer. He was consumed with love and wounded pride.
“I have given her all,” he told himself; “and get but half a heart in return. She must be everything to me, or nothing!”
He rode over to the Hall, but it was not the happy lover; it was a man with a stern, white face.
He left his horse in charge of a groom, and asked for Lady Elaine.
“I will wait in the west drawing-room,” he told the footman. “Let her ladyship know that I am here as soon as possible.”
He paced the floor impatiently, until he saw a vision of loveliness crossing the lawn toward the house. It was Lady Elaine, attired in a diaphanous dress of snowy white. She wore a broad-brimmed straw hat, and in her hands were bunches of wild flowers.
“My darling!” he murmured. “Oh, what a brute I am. If she is weak and frail, then Heaven itself is false!”
In a little while she came into the room, and his words of welcome died on his lips, for in the eyes of Elaine there was no answering smile.
“Sweetheart,” he whispered, hoarsely, “is this the best greeting you have for me?”
“Why have you absented yourself, Sir Harold, without one word of explanation?” she asked, with studied coldness.