The night passed, and the dawn broke, and the little doctor returning, weary and exhausted, found the tall figure still pacing the beach.
[CHAPTER XLI.]
Lenore sat in her dainty room, her long golden hair flooding her white shoulders, her fair face reflected in the Venetian mirror with its edging of antique work and trimming of lace. Not even a Venetian mirror could have desired to hold a fairer picture; youth, beauty, and happiness, smiled from its surface. The rich, delicately curved lips smiled to-night, with an ineffable content, and serene satisfaction.
There was a latent gleam of triumph in the violet eyes, eloquent of triumph and victory. She had conquered; the desire of her life was nearly within her grasp; two days—forty-eight hours—more and Leycester Wyndward would be hers. An ancient name, an historic title, an immense estate were to be hers. To do her justice at this moment, she thought neither of the title nor the estate; it was of the man, of the man with his handsome face, and musical voice, and debonnaire manner that she thought. If they had come and told her, there where she sat, that it had been discovered that he was neither noble nor rich, she would not have cared, it would not have mattered. It was the man, it was Leycester himself, for whom she had plotted and schemed, and she would have been content with him alone.
Even now, as she looked at the beautiful reflection in the mirror, it was with no thought of her own beauty, all her thoughts were of him; and the smile that crossed the red lips was called up by no spirit of vanity, but by the thought that in forty-eight hours, the wish and the desire of her life would be gratified.
In silence the maid brushed out the wealth of golden tresses, of which she was almost as proud as the owner herself; she had heard a whisper in the servants' hall, but it was not for her to speak. It was a rumor that something had happened to Lord Leycester, that he had not returned yet, and that one of the wild fits, with which all the household were familiar, had seized him, and that he was off no one knew where.
It was not for her to speak, but she watched her beautiful mistress covertly, and thought how quickly she could dispel the smile of serenity which sat upon the fair face.
Quiet as the wedding was intended to be, there was necessarily some stir; the society papers had got hold of it, and dilated upon it in paragraphs, in which Lenore was spoken of as "our reigning beauty," and Leycester described as the son of a well-known peer, and a man of fashion. Quite an army of upholsterers had been at work at the house in Grosvenor Square, and another army of milliners and dressmakers had been preparing the bride's trousseau. A pile of imperials and portmanteaus stood in the dressing-room, each bearing the initials "I," with the coronet.