NEW BERTHA CLAY LIBRARY ~ No. 226 ~

LOVED AND LOST

BY

Bertha M. Clay

A FAVORITE OF MILLIONS

New Bertha Clay Library

LOVE STORIES WITH PLENTY OF ACTION

PRICE, FIFTEEN CENTS

The Author Needs No Introduction

Countless millions of women have enjoyed the works of this author. They are in great demand everywhere. The following list contains her best work, and is the only authorized edition.

These stories teem with action, and what is more desirable, they are clean from start to finish. They are love stories, but are of a type that is wholesome and totally different from the cheap, sordid fiction that is being published by unscrupulous publishers.

There is a surprising variety about Miss Clay’s work. Each book in this list is sure to give satisfaction.

ALL TITLES ALWAYS IN PRINT

In order that there may be no confusion, we desire to say that the books listed below will be issued during the respective months in New York City and vicinity. They may not reach the readers at a distance promptly, on account of delays in transportation.

To Be Published in July, 1923.

To Be Published in August, 1923.

To Be Published in September, 1923.

To Be Published in October, 1923.

To Be Published in November, 1923.

To Be Published in December, 1923.

LOVE STORIES

All the world loves a lover. That is why Bertha M. Clay ranks so high in the opinion of millions of American readers who prefer a good love story to anything else they can get in the way of reading matter.

These stories are true to life—that’s why they make such a strong appeal. Read one of them and judge.

LOVED AND LOST

OR,

A Deadly Secret

BY

BERTHA M. CLAY

Whose complete works will be published in this, the New
Bertha Clay Library.

STREET & SMITH CORPORATION
PUBLISHERS
79-89 Seventh Avenue, New York

(Printed in the United States of America)

LOVED AND LOST.

CONTENTS

[CHAPTER I. UNDER THE GREENWOOD-TREE.]
[CHAPTER II. ADIEU.]
[CHAPTER III. A RUSE DE GUERRE.]
[CHAPTER IV. TUROY GRANGE.]
[CHAPTER V. WOMAN’S WAYS.]
[CHAPTER VI. THE LAST WALTZ.]
[CHAPTER VII. A NOBLE SACRIFICE.]
[CHAPTER VIII. PAULINE’S TRIUMPH.]
[CHAPTER IX. ALL FOR LOVE.]
[CHAPTER X. A FACE AT THE WINDOW.]
[CHAPTER XI. “WHAT’S IN A NAME?”]
[CHAPTER XII. A WILL-O’-THE-WISP.]
[CHAPTER XIII. DOCTOR MAY’S PATIENT.]
[CHAPTER XIV. MY LOVE—MY LIFE.]
[CHAPTER XV. A JOYFUL AWAKENING.]
[CHAPTER XVI. GWEN AND PAULINE.]
[CHAPTER XVII. WHAT HOPE CAN DO.]
[CHAPTER XVIII. A HAPPY BRIDE.]
[CHAPTER XIX. THE FIRST CLOUD.]
[CHAPTER XX. LOVED AND LOST.]
[CHAPTER XXI. FEAR.]
[CHAPTER XXII. CONVICTION.]
[CHAPTER XXIII. A PAINFUL SURPRISE.]
[CHAPTER XXIV. A COTTAGE BY THE SEA.]
[CHAPTER XXV. SIR LAWRENCE ACTS.]
[CHAPTER XXVI. A LONG EXPLANATION.]

CHAPTER I.

UNDER THE GREENWOOD-TREE.

“How on earth did you get up there?” And the speaker put his glass in his eye, and coolly surveyed the dainty figure perched on one of the branches of the huge elm, under which he was standing. “That is the last place I expected to find you.”

“I suppose so,” she answered composedly; for Lady Gwendolyn was never flustered or ill at ease under the most trying circumstances. “The fact is, I have had an unpleasant adventure.”

“Indeed; I am very sorry. But hadn’t you better let me help you down before we talk it over; unless you like your quarters so well that you are inclined to stay there, and, in that case, I will join you.”

“Nonsense, Colonel Dacre!” but she laughed, too. “What would Mrs. Grundy say to such an extraordinary tête-à-tête?”

“She would say that it had the merit of novelty; and, considering how tired one is of everything that has happened, and how bored at the thought of prospective repetitions, I consider that any one who strikes out a new line for himself, and refuses to lag along in the old groove, deserves to be canonized.”

“Well, it is very nice when people will be a little original, certainly; but I am not sure that a woman dare get out of the old groove. Moreover, you men like pretty nonentities.”

“The deuce we do!” exclaimed Colonel Dacre. “Who told you that?”

“Nobody. One does not need telling things when one has eyes and ears. I have seen you dance as often as four times in one evening with Mrs. O’Hara.”

“Well?”

“Well,” echoed Lady Gwendolyn, with a superb sort of insolence, “is she clever?”

“No.”

“Refined?”

“No,” answered Colonel Dacre again.

“Or particularly good?”

“I am afraid not.”

“Then what is it that makes her the most popular woman in London?”

“Upon my word, I can’t tell you. I like her because I knew poor O’Hara.”

“And is it so pleasant to talk to her of your dead friend?” insinuated Lady Gwendolyn slyly.

“I never heard her mention her husband’s name in my life.”

“No? Really, you quite astonish me! Then you can’t like her for his sake—you must like her for her own. And I will tell you why, shall I?”

“I am all attention.”

“Well, she flatters you so skilfully that you don’t even know she is doing it, at the same time that you feel infinitely satisfied with yourself. I don’t mean you, individually, Colonel Dacre; but her acquaintances generally.”

“At any rate, no one can accuse you of a like fault, Lady Gwendolyn,” he said, with a faint smile, that showed pain as well as amusement.

“No; I am perfectly downright—too much so, Lady Teignmouth says; but then there is one thing I would scorn to do.”

“What is that?” And there was a certain eagerness in his gray eyes.

“I would scorn to trouble the peace of a happy ménage for the sake of gratifying my poor vanity.”

“And who does this thing?”

“You have a very poor memory, Colonel Dacre. Don’t you remember how well poor foolish Percy Gray got on with his wife, until——”

“Go on,” he urged.

“Well, until Mrs. O’Hara paid them a long visit in town, and then Percy began gradually to discover that Lady Maria was unsympathetic and dull, and could not satisfy a man of intellectual tastes. Perhaps Mrs. O’Hara meant no worse than to make herself agreeable to a convenient acquaintance; but the result was to separate the two.”

“I don’t think you are just, Lady Gwendolyn. What reason have you for laying their domestic differences at Mrs. O’Hara’s door?”

“Lady Maria made no mystery of it.”

“She was jealous of Mrs. O’Hara.”

“Possibly. I fancy I should have been in her place,” and Lady Gwendolyn’s eyes flashed fire. “If I had a husband, I should not exactly care for him to be always dancing attendance on a handsome widow, and making her presents of valuable jewels, especially when he bought these last with my money.”

“Did Lady Maria tell you that, too?”

“Indeed she did, and ‘albeit though not given to the melting mood,’ I cried with her, poor thing! ‘For,’ as she pathetically said, ‘we were so happy together, Percy and I, until Mrs. O’Hara came to stay with us in town, and then she gave him such an exalted idea of himself that I could not please or satisfy him afterward.’”

There was a minute’s silence. Lady Gwendolyn was almost ashamed at the warmth she had shown, lest her motives should be misconstrued; and Colonel Dacre was meditating deeply. At last he looked up and said:

“Why do you tell me all this, Lady Gwendolyn? You are not a spiteful woman naturally, and I know you to be incapable of jealousy. For these reasons I am specially anxious to understand your meaning.”

“Can’t you guess?”

“No; unless you fancy I am in danger from Mrs. O’Hara’s attractions, and need warning.”

“I have been afraid so,” she said; and the wild-rose bloom of her soft cheeks deepened to a rich crimson. “And we have been friends so long, neighbors always, I could not bear to see you throw yourself away on a woman who was so infinitely unworthy of an honest man’s love.”

If Lady Gwendolyn had been near Colonel Dacre she would not have dared to speak so frankly. But her position, if ridiculous, had its advantages, for she was out of the range of his keen glances, and the tremulous leaves had the benefit of her frequent blushes. For over a month now she had been longing to tell him this, but the courage had only come to-day. She was quite obliged to Farmer Bates’ bull for having frightened her up into the tree, and she did not mean to descend just yet.

Colonel Dacre took a long time to digest her warning, but he spoke at last coolly enough.

“Thank you, Lady Gwendolyn; but though I don’t quite agree with you about Mrs. O’Hara, I would sooner shoot myself than marry her. My friend was a noble fellow, and kept his counsel bravely to the end; but there was one thing that would always prevent me from falling in love with his widow.”

“What is that?”

“Because I should not like to stand in a dead man’s shoes, especially his. So, you see, I am safe, although Mrs. O’Hara has the double advantages of being a nonentity and a flatterer. Now will you let me help you down from your perch?”

“Wait just one minute. I want to ask you a very impertinent question first, if I may.”

“I grant you absolution beforehand,” he said, smiling, “on condition that you do not keep me in suspense.”

“I want to know,” she began hesitatingly, “whether if—supposing Mrs. O’Hara had not been your friend’s widow——”

“I should have cared for her?” put in the colonel, to help out her halting speech. “Is that what you mean?”

“Yes; I am so absurdly curious, and I have always wondered if—if——”

Here she came to a full stop in dire confusion, for she had been going to add, “if that is the sort of woman you would care for;” and suddenly perceived that this would not do at all.

“I’ll answer your question when you are on terra firma,” replied Colonel Dacre, dodging to catch a glimpse of the piquant face among the leaves; “this is what I call a conversation under difficulties. By the by, you forgot to tell me why you got up there at all.”

“Bates’ bull put its head over the railing, and looked at my red cloak so viciously I dared not pass him. I had often climbed this tree with Reggie when I was a little girl, and had managed to give Fraulein von Linder the slip; and so I thought I would try it again to-day; but a gown with a train is embarrassing.”

“I expect it is,” he answered, with a droll look in his handsome eyes. “I should be sorry to go about the world crippled by my clothes as you women do.”

“Oh, we don’t mind it, as a rule. One would rather suffer anything, you know, than be quite out of the fashion.”

“Would one, indeed?” he returned, in a tone of grave commiseration. “It seems to me that fashion is the greatest despot the world ever knew; but I am thankful to say it is only women who yield so servilely to its exactions.”

“Of course. One never hears, for instance, of men putting their necks into a vise, and having to turn their heads painfully for fear of accidents to the machinery. Still, if we did hear of such things, we should know it was only done for comfort, and respect them vastly for consulting their own ease before appearances.”

“I can’t argue with a lady so high above me,” retorted Colonel Dacre; and then he added, more seriously: “Indeed, Lady Gwendolyn, you ought to come down. I can see the Handley drag in the distance, and you know Sir Charles would tease your life out of you if he caught you in such a predicament as this.”

“I suppose he would, and therefore I must return to conventional life again. But you have no idea how pleasant it is up here; the air is so pure, and the leaves smell so sweet. I’ll get Teignmouth to arrange me a little place in one of his big trees, à la Robinson, so that I may retire there for contemplation and self-examination occasionally.”

“Or, rather, say to read your billets doux, and keep a close calculation as to the number of hearts you have broken,” said Colonel Dacre, with a sternness in his voice that showed this trifling, butterfly nature—as he believed it to be—angered as well as charmed him. “I fancy that would be nearer the truth.”

Without answering him, Lady Gwendolyn began to work her way slowly along the bough on which she had been seated. She found it a very different performance in cold blood from what it had been under the excitement of fear, and felt herself tremble nervously.

She was terribly incommoded by her dress into the bargain. If Colonel Dacre had not been there she would have gathered her train over her arm, and let her ankles take their chance; but under the circumstances this would not have done, and she had to proceed circumspectly, as became the daughter of a hundred earls.

Knowing nothing of her difficulties, and seeing the Handley drag draw nearer and nearer, Colonel Dacre kept urging her on eagerly. Sir Charles was a great gossip, and it was quite as well he should not have an opportunity of making mischief out of Lady Gwendolyn’s escapade.

“You really must be quick,” he urged; “the horses are turning Borton corner.”

“But don’t you think I should pass unobserved if you were to get away from the tree?” observed Lady Gwendolyn timidly.

“Impossible. Your red cloak must have been a feature in the landscape for some time past. You had better leave it where it is, to account for what they have seen, and if you are very quick, we shall be able to hide ourselves before they get on high ground again.”

“That’s all very well, but——”

“Shall I give you a little help?”

“Not for worlds! I would rather stay here all night.”

“Why?”

“Because I know you are laughing at me in your sleeve. You did not see the bull’s great glaring eyes.”

“If you had made him a present of your cloak he would have been so taken up with his toy that you would have been able to make your escape in a legitimate way.”

“That’s all very well, but I really can’t afford to throw my clothes away in that fashion. I have come down to Teignmouth on purpose to economize, because I exceeded my allowance last year, and my brother had to help me through. Now he is married he has to pay his wife’s debts, and, of course, I am left out in the cold; so I am obliged to be horribly careful, you see. Teignmouth says I ought to make three hundred pounds a year do; but then you men never understand what heaps of things a woman wants.”

“Exactly,” groaned her listener. “A man must have ten thousand pounds nowadays before he can afford the luxury of a wife, and then he’s ruined half the time. But pray look where you are going, Lady Gwendolyn. I am sure that branch on which you are stepping is rotten and unsafe.”

“It bore me before.”

“And, therefore, is less likely to do so again. I can hear it crack now—for mercy’s sake step back!” he shouted, in a frightened tone.

She seemed to enjoy his alarm, and laughed defiantly. She desired nothing better than to make him suffer a little; and she saw, by his anxious face, that he was suffering now—from a nervous dread of witnessing some catastrophe, no doubt. She put her other foot onto the rotten branch. He was watching her with his heart in his eyes; but he saw that his warning had been a mistake, and was silent now, hoping she would try to redeem her error if she were left to herself.

And so she did; but it was too late. The bough gave a loud creak, then broke off suddenly, and Lady Gwendolyn fell in a brilliant heap at Colonel Dacre’s feet.

The red cloak, her pretty summer hat, and her long black hair, were all in such a tangle together that he could not find her face at first, and even when he did he was afraid to look, lest the fatal beauty, which had been the curse of so many, was all spoiled and disfigured. An unholy thought sped through him, that, if it were so, there would be none to dispute with him the treasure he coveted. But he chased this away with contumely.

With a quick but reluctant hand he swept away the shining masses of her hair, and looked at her anxiously. She was as white as a lily; but if there was no more harm done than what he saw, she would break many more hearts yet—his own maybe among the rest.

He bent his lips almost to her ear; inhaling, with passionate delight, the faint perfume that pervaded her dress.

So far it had been a wonderful privilege to hold her hand for a few seconds in his; and now he might have touched her creamy cheek with his lips had he been so minded, and no one would have been the wiser, for the Handley wagonette had gone by, and there was not a living soul in sight.

It was a great temptation, for he had loved this girl secretly, madly, entirely, for two long years, and had suffered tortures of jealousy and hopelessness meanwhile.

If she would only come to herself! He did not think she could be much injured, as she had not fallen from any great height, but still she did not open her eyes, and he was so totally inexperienced in fainting-fits, that her perfect immovability frightened him.

He almost wished now that he had hailed the Handley people as they went by, although he was so jealously glad to have her all to himself. He wondered what he ought to do. He had heard of eau de Cologne being an excellent thing under the circumstance, but then he did not carry it about with him. He put his hand in his pocket mechanically as the idea occurred to him, and came upon his silver hunting-flask. His face brightened at once. He was sure he had also heard of brandy as a remedy, and what a merciful thing he had some by him. He supposed it was to be applied externally, like the eau de Cologne. Going down on his knees beside the insensible figure, he moistened his handkerchief with the spirit, and then bathed Lady Gwendolyn’s forehead and nostrils; and whether it was that brandy so applied really was a good thing, or that the fainting-fits was ending naturally, the girl’s white eyelids began to twinkle, and suddenly she looked up at him with a languidly mysterious smile.

He stooped over her tenderly.

“Are you better, Lady Gwendolyn?”

“Have I been ill, then?” she asked.

“Oh, dear, no!” he answered cheerfully, having always understood that you must keep your patient’s spirits up. “Just a little faintness, that was all. Nothing of the smallest consequence.”

“How do you know that?” she returned. “I believe I have broken my leg.”

“Oh! pray, don’t say that. You only fell from a very short distance, after all, and your feet were not doubled under you, or anything of that sort. You don’t feel any pain, do you?”

Lady Gwendolyn shook her dark, disheveled head in a despondent way.

“That is what I do feel, and I am sure I could not walk home.”

“I never dreamed of your doing such a thing. If you don’t mind waiting here——”

She interrupted him with a cry of dismay.

“So close to Bates’ bull?”

“I beg your pardon,” he said penitently, and then stood pulling at his mustache—a way he had when puzzled or annoyed.

At last he added hesitatingly:

“My house is close here, and if you would not mind my carrying you there, Mrs. Whittaker, the housekeeper, would be able to attend to you until the doctor came. I cannot think of any better plan at this moment; and, of course, I shall not enter the Hall until I have fetched Lady Teignmouth. It is ridiculous to trouble about conventionalities at such a time, Lady Gwendolyn, when the least neglect or delay might cause you to be a cripple for life. Are you not of my opinion?”

“Quite,” she replied, with a strange gleam as of suppressed triumph in her beautiful eyes. “Only that I am afraid you will find that the burden laid upon you is heavier than you can bear.”

“We shall see,” he said, lifting her in his stalwart arms as easily as if she had been a child. “Would you mind putting your arm round my shoulder, just to steady yourself?”

Lady Gwendolyn obeyed him with the simplicity that is always such perfect breeding; and when Colonel Dacre looked down at the creamy cheek resting on his shoulder, and felt the warm coil of her arm round his neck, he could hardly resist the mad temptation to press her against his heart, and tell her again and again how he loved her—so passionately that he would have deemed the world well lost for her sweet sake.

CHAPTER II.

ADIEU.

“Are you not a long time getting to the Hall?” inquired Lady Gwendolyn innocently. “It looked so very near when I was at the top of the tree. I am afraid I must be dreadfully heavy, after all. Do let me try to walk.”

“Not for the world; you might injure yourself for life,” he replied. “I could have hurried a little more, only that I was afraid of shaking you.”

Of course he could. Lady Gwendolyn knew that as well as he did, and smiled to herself. Surely he deserved that she should play with him a little, when for two long years he had kept her in suspense as to the state of his feelings, and had only betrayed them by accident now.

“You carry me beautifully,” she said, with her most gracious air. “You must be wonderfully strong.”

“I used to be; but I have seen my best days, you know.”

“I don’t know. What age are you?” she asked, in her usual downright way.

“Nearly thirty-four.”

“Say thirty-three; there is no need to anticipate. I shall be twenty next week; but I mean to call myself nineteen until twelve o’clock on Monday night. When I reach twenty-five I shall pause there for four or five years, and then go on as slowly as possible, counting every other year, until I am awfully old, and then I sha’n’t mind.”

“Would you really mind now if you were—thirty, say?”

“Yes—I should,” she replied, with great decision.

“Then how dreadfully you must feel for me, Lady Gwendolyn.”

“I don’t think it signifies about a man’s age, unless he is beginning to get infirm. But you have plenty of good years before you yet, Colonel Dacre.”

“I hope you are a true prophet, Lady Gwendolyn. I can assure you that, so far, I have only seen the dark side of life.”

“And yet to outsiders you always seem such a very fortunate person.”

“Do I? Why?”

“You have plenty of money, a fine old property, health to enjoy your advantages; and, therefore, as the world argues, you are an exceedingly fortunate person.”

“Of course, I forgot,” he said bitterly; “money is everything in this world; and yet how little it can buy—of what one values most, I mean.”

“Why, it buys diamonds!” exclaimed Lady Gwendolyn naïvely.

“And you value them more than anything?”

“Well, they are property,” said her ladyship, with a provoking laugh. “I get tired of an ornament so soon; it is nice to know I can dispose of it to advantage, and buy something that pleases me better with the money.”

“Lady Gwendolyn, I give you notice that I don’t believe a word you are saying.”

“No?”

“No, I do not believe you to be so bad as you make yourself out,” he pursued, with indignant emphasis, for he was trying to convince himself as well as to shame her. “But I cannot understand the pleasure of shocking people.”

“Because you are not sensational.”

“Heaven forbid!” he ejaculated fervently.

“Why ‘Heaven forbid?’ There is nothing so delightful. I should die of ennui down here, if it weren’t for an occasional tragedy or surprise.”

“It is to be hoped you won’t have one too many,” he answered gravely.

She lifted her mutinous face from his shoulder to look into his eyes, and then subsided back into her warm shelter, smiling an odd, keen, satisfied little smile, which seemed to say: “You belong to me so thoroughly now that, whatever I may say or do, you cannot break your bonds.”

And, alas! it was only too true. He knew this himself by his undiminished longing to crush her into his arms—to carry her away to some quiet corner of the earth, where she might belong to him undisputed, and satisfy his whole being with the sweetness of her presence. For this he would have resigned gladly all the advantages she had just been enumerating; for this he would have sacrificed everything but his honor, and hope of heaven.

“Well,” she said, after a long pause, “why don’t you talk?”

“I have nothing to say, Lady Gwendolyn, that would be sufficiently tragical, or surprising, either, to amuse you,” he answered, with indulgent irony.

“I am not so sure of that. Do you know what somebody told me once?”

“Somebody must have told you so many things at different times.”

“But I mean about you?”

“I am no Œdipus, Lady Gwendolyn,” he answered; and, though he constrained himself to speak coolly, his lips went white.

“That you have a secret in your life—a skeleton in your cupboard,” she said, in a quick breath, that showed that she was speaking with a purpose, and not out of mere audacity and carelessness. “Is it true?”

He seemed to swallow down a great lump in his throat before he could answer her; and then his voice was strangely hoarse, and unlike his natural tones.

“Do you ask this out of curiosity only, Lady Gwendolyn?”

It was her turn to steady her voice before she responded:

“No—at least, not exactly.”

“Then tell me your motive?”

And, unconsciously, in his eagerness he stooped over her, until his lips touched her hair.

“I—I want to know,” she stammered out.

“That is not a reason.”

“It is the best I can give you.”

“The best you can give me would be the true one.”

“A woman does not like to confess that she is curious,” she said evasively.

“Then it is curiosity?”

“I did not say so.”

“You implied it, Lady Gwendolyn.”

“Don’t you know that speech was given to us to enable us to conceal our thoughts, Colonel Dacre?”

“You are fencing the question. I wish you would be frank with me for once.”

“It is a great mistake to be frank. You only put weapons into your enemies’ hands for them to wound you with.”

“But you are not obliged to be frank with enemies, Lady Gwendolyn.”

“If once people get into the habit, it is very difficult to break it off. Besides, who is to discriminate between friend and foe?”

“I thought a woman’s wonderful instinct always helped her there.”

“Not always. For instance”—saucily—“I have never been able to discover yet whether you like me or not.”

“Then you must be extraordinarily obtuse,” he answered, in the same tone.

“I acknowledged as much just now.”

But at this moment they reached the Hall, in spite of Colonel Dacre’s lingering, and he carried her carefully over the threshold, and placed her on the sofa in a small room, which had once been his mother’s boudoir, and where the pretty things a refined woman likes to collect around her lay about in elegant profusion.

“Now I will go and speak to my housekeeper, and place you in her charge during my absence,” he said; and was moving toward the door, when she put out her hand and detained him.

“Colonel Dacre, will you do me a great favor?”

“A dozen if I had the chance,” he answered, with more vehemence than he was conscious of.

“I don’t want any one to know I am here until you return.”

“Oh, but, Lady Gwendolyn, it is impossible that I should leave you without assistance.”

“Not if I prefer it?” she asked, with her most persuasive accent.

“When people want things that are bad for them we generally serve them, in spite of themselves, by a denial.”

“Yes; but this is not really bad for me. My foot has entirely ceased to pain me, and what I want now is simply rest and quiet. I know Mrs. Whittaker, and she is a terrible gossip. I could not stand her in my best moments; now she would irritate me beyond endurance.”

Seeing him still hesitate, she added, in a decided tone:

“Very well, then, if she comes, or any fuss is made in the house, I will hop home, somehow, Colonel Dacre. There will be an astonishing story abroad to-morrow if Mrs. Whittaker is taken into our confidence——”

“But how is this to be avoided?” he interrupted.

“Very easily indeed. Lady Teignmouth will come to fetch me presently, and how should your servants know that we did not arrive together?”

“You forget that we shall have to account for Doctor Thurlow’s sudden visit.”

“I don’t see any need for that. You are not surely bound to keep your servants au courant as to all your movements.”

“That is about the last thing I should think of as a rule. I trouble myself very little about what they think; but I am naturally sensitive for you, Lady Gwendolyn.”

“If that is the case, you must see that my proposition is a good one. The servants are less likely to talk if they have nothing to talk about.”

“You don’t do justice to their inventive faculties, Lady Gwendolyn.”

“I don’t profess to understand them much,” she answered, with the hauteur of a true patrician. “I always hear that they are very unsatisfactory people; but I am sufficiently fortunate, I suppose, for I don’t often change my maids.”

“And I never change mine,” he said, laughing. “I always find the same faces here when I return from my travels. But are you quite determined to banish Mrs. Whittaker, Lady Gwendolyn?”

“Entirely. I infinitely prefer to be alone; and as I am free from pain, and perfectly composed, I really don’t see what I could do with her if she were here, except listen to your praises.”

“And that would be too trying.”

“I never said so; but, as you advocate frankness, I will admit that I would rather the pleasure were postponed.”

“Sine die, I suppose?”

“Colonel Dacre, you are too spiteful! I won’t listen to you any longer.”

And she turned her face to the wall, with a resolute air.

He went down on one knee, and said in a tragical tone:

“I cannot depart without your forgiveness. There is a deep pit on the Teignmouth Road, and, blinded by despair, I should be sure to fall into it! There is also a swift river beyond. You will not, surely, send me forth to certain destruction?”

She gave him her hand, and his lips fastened on it eagerly, passionately. She kept her face averted still, but she did not chide him, and a faint tremor went through her whole frame. Then slowly she turned her head, and, looking him straight in the eyes, said softly:

“You have not told me your secret yet.”

He sprang to his feet abruptly, as if he had been stung.

“Who told you I had a secret?” he asked, in a stifled voice.

“Some one.”

“Is it impossible that ‘some one’ should lie?”

“Tell me it is so, and I will believe you.”

Dead silence.

“Do you hear me, Colonel Dacre?”

“Yes, I hear you, Lady Gwendolyn.”

“Then answer something,” she added, in an impatient tone.

Again he was mute.

She snatched her hand away from him, and turned her face to the wall once more.

“I understand you, Colonel Dacre. You have a secret, and one you would be ashamed to tell me.”

“Is that a necessary inference?” he inquired, in a low, constrained voice.

“I think so.”

“Perhaps you are too prejudiced to be just.”

“I don’t know why I should be. You and I were always good friends, in the social sense of the term. For instance, you always asked me for two or three dances when we met at a ball, and sometimes you even took me down to supper. I have even known you to shelter me from the sun by holding my parasol at a garden-party; and once you so far sacrificed yourself as to play croquet at my desire. After that I never allowed myself to doubt your devotion, I assure you; and I am surprised you should think I could be prejudiced against you.”

“Can you never be serious?” he said painfully.

“I am serious now.”

“I should be sorry to think so.”

“Why? I have not said anything bad, have I?”

“No; but if your seriousness is so much like jest, how is one ever to know which you mean it to be?”

“You must wait for circumstances to enlighten you.”

“How long?”

“That depends upon—circumstances.”

“You are very enigmatical, Lady Gwendolyn, and, as I said before, I am no Œdipus.”

“Then you give me up?” she said, laughing.

“As a riddle, yes. There never was a man yet who could fathom a woman, from Adam downward.”

“It was never intended that you should, evidently, or Eve would not have been allowed to set such a precedent. Weakness is often obliged to seem like duplicity in self-defense.”

“Do you call yourself weak? Physical strength is not the greatest, after all, or Una would never have tamed the lion.”

“If you lapse into allegory, I am undone,” she said gaily. “I am no ‘scholar,’ as the poor people say. What little my governesses managed to teach me I have forgotten long ago.”

“And yet, I heard you translate a Latin epigram very creditably the other day.”

“Nonsense! Colonel Dacre. Your ears deceived you. I should have been so exhausted mentally by the effort that I should not have been able to frame an intelligible sentence for at least a year afterward, and you see I am quite rational to-day.”

He rose with an impatient, weary air. It seemed as if she were such an incorrigible trifler, and had so thoroughly accustomed herself to look on the ridiculous side of everything, that now she could not be serious even if she wished.

And yet she was so lovely; and what better excuse did a man ever need for such folly?

“‘If to her share a thousand errors fall,

Look in her face and you forget them all,’”

the colonel muttered to himself, rather grimly, as he furtively examined the delicate profile which was just sufficiently out of the straight Greek line to give it more piquancy without losing the grace of the model.

Though she was somewhat above the middle height, she might have worn Cinderella’s glass slipper with ease, and her hand was so small, and soft, and plump, it seemed to melt in your grasp.

Altogether, she was the only woman yet who had ever entirely satisfied him. Others had charmed him for a time, but he had never learned to love them because somehow they had always managed to disenchant him before he reached that point. But he had only to see Lady Gwendolyn to tumble headlong, foolishly in love; and though he had been struggling to get out of bondage ever since, each month seemed to strengthen his chains.

Now he had surrendered at discretion, and felt himself at the mercy of this black-browed witch of a woman, who seemed to think it a pleasant pastime to break the hearts of those who loved her.

Having almost reached the door, he came back to say wistfully:

“Do you forgive me for disobeying you, Lady Gwendolyn?”

“No,” she answered shortly and sternly; for she was given to these Protean changes of mood. “You have not told me your secret.”

“Why will you harp upon that miserable subject? I do not question you upon your past.”

“You have no right,” she said haughtily.

A sudden glow crept into his face; his eyes shone with triumph.

“You think that you have a right to know mine, then, Lady Gwendolyn?”

She saw then what inference she had favored, and grew crimson to the very roots of her hair under his searching, impassioned gaze. Amazed at her own embarrassment, she answered petulantly:

“I wish you would let me rest, Colonel Dacre. I might as well have had Mrs. Whittaker if you were going to gossip like this.”

“I beg your pardon,” he answered, with a formal bow; “I forget that I might be boring you. What message shall I give Lady Teignmouth from you?”

“None whatever, thank you. Say what you think fit. She is sure to be shocked, anyhow, for she is the most unmitigated prude I ever knew; but she will recover herself in time, I dare say. Will you kindly hand me a book before you go?”

He chose one that he thought would interest her, placed it on a little table beside her sofa, with very evident pleasure in the service, and then, remembering Lot’s wife, he left the room without once looking back.

Lord Teignmouth’s park adjoined his, and he had not far to go; but, on reaching the house, he heard, to his dismay, that his lordship and wife had driven out together to make some calls, and were not expected home until six o’clock.

Of course he could not confide his errand to the butler, and, therefore, he simply said that he would call again later, and took his way toward the village. But, as luck would have it, Doctor Thurlow was also absent, having been sent for a few minutes before he arrived; and, as his patient lived nearly eight miles off, there was not much chance of his being back for an hour and a half, at least.

Colonel Dacre began to think that everything was conspiring to drive him crazy. He might reasonably have counted upon taking back one of the three people he had gone to fetch, and so setting Lady Gwendolyn right with the world, supposing her adventure got wind; and not knowing what to do now, he decided to walk back to the Hall as quickly as possible, and hear what his guest wished done.

He began to see now that it was a mistake to have taken her there at all. If he had only carried her into Bates’ house, nothing could possibly have been said—only that people always think of these brilliant expedients when it is too late to carry them into effect, and as it had not suggested itself to Lady Gwendolyn she could hardly blame him for his forgetfulness.

He had left the door ajar, and stole into the house unperceived. Perhaps in his heart of hearts he was not sorry that he should have another tête-à-tête with Lady Gwendolyn, though he would not have confessed as much even to himself, so anxious was he to be honorable even in thought.

The door of the little boudoir where he had left her was shut fast, and he knocked softly thrice without receiving any answer. At last, fancying that the girl must have fallen asleep, he opened it with a certain hesitation and peered in, naturally glancing first toward the sofa, where he had seen her last, reclining helplessly back among the cushions.

She was not there.

Somewhat alarmed now, he walked boldly in, and searched even behind the curtains, thinking, perhaps, her ladyship was coquetting with his fears, and enjoying his discomfiture from her hiding-place. But she was not there, or anywhere, so far as he could perceive, and he paused in great perplexity. Had the Teignmouths chanced to call while he was away, and carried her off?