"Shall I ever be old, I wonder?—and then shall I have ceased to care? Out of all the world of women will there be only one for whom my heart will beat, my pulses thrill, my whole soul long and love? I have tried to love other women—I have told them I love them; but I don't think for one moment I deceived myself, or them. Men say the sins and follies of youth come back to smite us as scourges in the after years; but I suppose my love has kept me pure in a way, and will do so. It was never sin to me till her own act made it so, for she seemed always mine in my thoughts and dreams, and I alone seemed to have the right to her. But now—well, she was wiser than I when she bade me leave her. This last year has only made us both more wretched. And she is not happy—my darling! Ah, when she loved me there was not that sad look in her eyes, and that brute is not even faithful. But of that she knows nothing, and, bad as I am, I wouldn't tell her so. Let her keep her faith unshaken, and live her life of duty. Why should I make it harder than it is? .... Every year now will take her further and further from me, and yet I know she loves me. I wonder what held me back when I bade her farewell? I could have taught her forgetfulness then, if never before; and yet—and yet, thank God, I did not. I think to see her eyes reproach me would be worse than this; I should feel inclined to kill myself and—her. Oh, God! what fools men can be for a woman's sake!"
Some one comes softly into the room; it is Andrews the careful and attentive. He brings a letter in his hand, and lays it down on the table by his young master's side. Keith turns towards him, and holds out a thin transparent hand for the missive. He tears open the envelope, and as he looks at the address a flush of colour steals over his face.
"Falcon's Chase, Brockfield,
"Northumberland.
"MY DEAR ATHELSTONE,
"We have only just heard of your illness, and are much concerned about it, more especially as you are alone at an hotel, and must be dependent on quite alien services. As soon as ever your health permits, will you come to us here, and let us try to nurse you back to health once more? As the weather is so unusually mild, I do not think you will find the air of Northumberland too bracing. Lauraine, of course, joins with me in this invitation. In fact, we can't hear of a refusal. I will meet you in London, and come down with you as soon as ever your physicians give you permission for the journey. With my kindest regards, and sympathy from all mutual friends here,
"Believe me, very sincerely yours,
"FRANCIS S. VAVASOUR."
Keith reads the letter steadily through to the end, and his face grows white as the paper as he so reads it. But a new, stern look comes into his eyes, and his lips close tight under their thick moustache.
"What does it mean?" he thinks, as he reads the subtle tempting. "Can Lauraine really have had any hand in this? I don't believe it. No; I will not go. The snare is too plainly set." And before he can have time to alter his mind he asks for pen and ink, and dashes off a firm but courteous refusal on the plea of his physicians ordering him to a warm climate.
"She shall never have to reproach me again if I can help it," he says to himself, as exhausted with even this small exertion, he sinks back on his pillows. "She called me selfish once. Will she do so now?—now, when for her sake——"
There is only a very small house party at Falcon's Chase when Keith Athelstone's letter arrives, and the master of the house reads it with a clouded brow. He has insisted upon his wife's asking Lady Jean down, and, despite her recent bereavement, the Lady Jean accepts the invitation. She is very subdued, very mournful, lives a great deal in her own rooms, and altogether affords a very unobtrusive spectacle of chastened sorrow. She is more than ever gracious to her hostess, and dignified to her host, and even Lady Etwynde's observant eyes can see nothing in any way suspicious.