St. Martin's Eve: A Novel

by Mrs. Henry Wood

"He asked for it. But he knows it is true. Look at his conscious face now!" she saucily continued.

"The only lady in England honoured with my correspondence," said he, in a more serious tone than he had hitherto spoken, "is Mrs. St. John."

"That's almost true," cried the provoking girl--"almost. She is not Mrs. St. John yet, only to be."

A strange wild spasm caught Adeline de Castella's heart. Would Rose have continued, had she known it? Did St. John suspect it?

"I spoke of my mother, Rose," he said. "She is the only lady who claims, or receives, letters from me."

"Honour bright?" asked Rose.

"Honour bright," repeated Mr. St. John: "the honour of her only son."

"Oh, faithless that you are then!" burst forth Rose. "Will you deny that there is one in England to whom your letters are due, if not sent; one whose shadow you were for many, many months--if not years--one, beautiful as a painters dream?"

"Bah, Rose!" he said, his lips curling with a proud, defiant smile, "you are lapsing into ecstasies."

"Shall I tell her name--the name of his own true lady-love?" asked Rose, turning round, a world of triumph on her bright, laughing brow. "Mary Carr knows it already."