The muffled man was shown in, still wearing hat and scarf. The library was but dimly lit. He stood like a dark shadow amid the other shadows. An instant later the door opened and Lady Helena, pale and wild, appeared on the threshold.
"It is," she faltered. "It is—you!"
She approached slowly, her terrified eyes riveted on the hidden face.
"It is I. Lock the door."
She obeyed, she came nearer. He drew away the scarf, lifted the hat, and showed her the face of Sir Victor Catheron.
CHAPTER XXIII.
THE SECOND ENDING OF THE TRAGEDY.
The morning dawned over Powyss Place—dawned in wild wind and driving rain still—dawned upon Edith, deserted more strangely than surely bride was ever deserted before.
She had darkened her chamber; she had forced herself resolutely to sleep. But the small hours had come before she had succeeded, and it was close upon ten when the dark eyes opened from dreamland to life. Strange mockery! it was ever of Charley and the days that were forever gone she dreamed now.
For hours and hours she had paced her room the evening and night before, all the desolation, all the emptiness and loss of her life spread out before her. She had sold herself deliberately and with her eyes open, and this was her reward. Deserted in the hour of her triumph—humiliated as never bride was humiliated before—the talk, the ridicule of the country, an object of contemptuous pity to the whole world. And Charley and Trixy, what would they say when they heard of her downfall? She was very proud—no young princess had ever haughtier blood coursing through her royal veins than this portionless American girl. For wealth and rank she had bartered life and love, and verily she had her reward.