CHAPTER XXXI.

Leycester went down the stairs with the uncertain gait of a drunken

man, and having reached the open air stood for a moment staring round

him as if he were bereft of his senses; as indeed he almost was.

The shock had come so suddenly that it had deprived him of the power

of reasoning, of following the thing out to its logical conclusion.

As he walked on, threading his way along the crowded thoroughfare,

and exciting no little attention and remark by his wild, distraught

appearance, he realized that he had lost Stella.

He realized that he had lost the beautiful girl who had stolen into

his heart and absorbed his love. And the manner of his losing her made

the loss so bitter! That a man, that such a creature as this Jasper

Adelstone, should come between them was terrible. If it had been any

other, who was in some fashion his own equal--Charlie Guildford, for

instance, a gentleman and a nobleman--it would have been bad enough,

but he could have understood it. He would have felt that he had been

fairly beaten; but Jasper Adelstone!

Then it was so evident that love was not altogether the reason of her

treachery and desertion; there was something else; some secret which

gave that man a hold over her. He stopped short in the most crowded

part of the Strand, and put his hand to his brow and groaned.

To think that his Stella, his beautiful child-love, whom he had deemed

an angel for innocence, should share a secret with such a man. And

what was it? Was there shame connected with it? He shuddered as the

suspicion crossed his mind and smote upon his heart. What had she done

to place her so utterly in Jasper Adelstone's hands? What was it? The

question harassed and worried him to the exclusion of all other sides

of the case.

Was it something that had occurred before he, Leycester, had met her?

She had known this Jasper Adelstone before she knew Leycester; but he

remembered her speaking of him as a conceited, self-opinioned young

man; he remembered the light scorn with which she had described him.

No, it could not have happened thus early. When then? and where was

it? He could find no solution to the question; but the terrible result

remained, that she had delivered herself, body and soul, into the

hands of Jasper Adelstone, and was lost to him, Leycester!

Striking along, careless of where he was going, he found himself

at last in Pall Mall. He entered one of his clubs, and went to the

smoking-room. There he lit a cigar, and took out the marriage license

and looked at it long and absently. If all had gone right, Stella would

have been his, if not by this time, a very little later, and they would

have gone to Italy, they two, together and alone--with happiness.

But now it was all changed--the cup had been dashed from his lips at

the last moment, and by--Jasper Adelstone!

He sat, with the unsmoked cigar in his fingers, his head drooped

upon his breast, the nightmare of the secret mystery pressing on his

shoulders. It was not only the loss of Stella, it was the feeling that

she had deceived him that was so bitter to bear; it was the existence

of the secret understanding between the two that so utterly overwhelmed

him. He could have married Stella though she had been a beggar in the

streets, but he could have no part or lot in the woman who shared a

secret with such a one as Jasper Adelstone.

The smoking-room footman hovered about, glancing covertly and curiously

at the motionless figure in the deep arm-chair; acquaintances sauntered

in and gave him good-bye; but Leycester sat brooding over his sorrow

and disappointment, and made no response.

A more miserable young man it would have been impossible to find in all

London than this viscount and heir to an earldom, with all his immense

wealth and proud hereditary titles.

The afternoon came, hot and sultry, and to him suffocating. The

footman, beginning to be seriously alarmed by the quiescence of the

silent figure, was just considering whether it was not his duty to

bring him some refreshment, or rouse him by offering him the paper,

when Leycester rose, much to the man's relief, and walked out.

Within the last few minutes he had decided upon some course of action.

He could not stay in London, he could not remain in England; he would

go abroad--go right out of the way, and try and forget. He smiled to

himself at the word, as if he should ever forget the beautiful face

that had lain upon his breast, the exquisite eyes that had poured the

lovelight into his, the sweet girl-voice that had murmured its maiden

confession in his ear!

He called a cab, and told the man to drive to Waterloo; caught a train,

threw himself into a corner of the carriage, and gave himself up to the

bitterness of despair.

Dinner was just over when his tall figure passed along the terrace, and

the ladies were standing under the drawing-room veranda enjoying the

sunset. A little apart from the rest stood Lenore. She was leaning

against one of the iron columns, her dress of white cashmere and satin

trimmed with pearls standing out daintily and fairy-like against the

mass of ferns and flowers behind her.

She was leaning in the most graceful air of abandon, her sunshade

lying at her feet, her hands folded with an indolent air of rest on

her lap; there was a serene smile upon her lips, a delicate languor in

her violet eyes, an altogether at-peace-with-all-the-world expression

which was in direct contrast with the faint expression of anxiety which

rested on the handsome face of the countess.

Every now and then, as the proud and haughty woman, but anxious mother,

chatted and laughed with the women around her, her gaze wandered to the

open country with an absent, almost fearful expression, and once, as

the sound of a carriage was heard on the drive, she was actually guilty

of a start.

But the carriage was only that of one of the guests, and the countess

sighed and turned to her duties again. Lenore, with head thrown back,

watched her with a lazy smile. She was suffering likewise, but she had

something tangible to fear, something definite to hope; the mother knew

nothing, but feared all things.

Presently Lady Wyndward happened to come within the scope of Lenore's

voice.

"You look tired to-night, dear," she said.

The countess smiled, wearily.

"I will admit a little headache," she said; then she looked at the

lovely indolent face. "You look well enough, Lenore!"

Lady Lenore smiled, curiously.

"Do you think so!" she answered. "Suppose I also confessed a headache!"

"I should outdo you even then," said the countess, with a sigh, "for I

have a heartache!"

Lenore put out her hand, white and glittering with pearls and diamonds,

and laid it on the elder woman's arm with a little caressing gesture

peculiar to her.

"Tell me dear," she whispered.

The countess shook her head.

"I cannot," she said, with a sigh. "I scarcely know myself. I am quite

in the dark, but I know that something has happened or is happening.

You know that Leycester went suddenly yesterday?"

Lady Lenore moved her head in assent.

The countess sighed.

"I am always fearful of him."

Lenore laughed, softly.

"So am I. But I am not fearful on this occasion. Wait until he comes

back."

The countess shook her head.

"When will that be? I am afraid not for some time!"

"I think he will come back to-night," said Lenore, with a smile that

was too placid to be confident or boastful.

The countess smiled and looked at her.

"You are a strange girl, Lenore," she said. "What makes you think that?"

Lenore turned the bracelet on her arm.

"Something seems to whisper to me that he will come," she said. "Look!"

And she just moved her hand toward the terrace. Leycester was coming

slowly up the broad stone steps.

Lady Wyndward made a move forward, but Lenore's hand closed over her

arm, and she stopped and looked at her.

Lenore shook her head, smiling softly.

"Better not," she murmured, scarcely above her breath. "Not yet. Leave

him alone. Something has happened as you surmised. I have such keen

eyes, you know, and can see his face."

So could Lady Wyndward by this time, and her own turned white at sight

of the pale, haggard face.

"Do not go to him," whispered Lenore, "do not stop him. Leave him

alone; it is good advice."

Lady Wyndward felt instinctively that it was, and so that she might not

be tempted to disregard it, she turned away and went into the house.

Leycester came along the terrace, and raising his eyes, heavy and

clouded, saw the ladies, but he only raised his hat and passed on.

Then he came to where the figure in white, glimmering with pearls and

diamonds, leaned against the column and he hesitated a moment, but

there was no look of invitation in her eyes, only a faint smile, and he

merely raised his hat again and passed on; but, half unconsciously, he

had taken in the loveliness and grace of the picture that she made, and

that was all that she desired for the present.

With heavy steps he crossed the hall, climbed the stairs, and entered

his own room.

His man Oliver, who had been waiting for him and hanging about, came in

softly, but stole out again at sight of the dusky figure lying wearily

on the chair; but presently Leycester called him and he went back.

"Get a bath ready, Oliver," he said, "and pack a portmanteau; we shall

leave to-night."

"Very good, my lord," was the quiet response, and then he went to

prepare the bath.

Leycester got up and strode to and fro. Though she had never entered

his rooms, the apartments seemed full of her; from the easel stared the

disfigured Venus which he had daubed out on the first night he had seen

her. On the table, in an Etruscan vase of crystal, were some of the

wild flowers which her hand had plucked, her lips had pressed. These he

took--not fiercely but solemnly--and threw out of the window.

Suddenly there floated upon the air the strains of solemn music. He

started. He had almost forgotten Lilian; the great sorrow and misery

had almost driven her from his memory. He sat the vase down upon the

table, and went to her room; she knew his knock, and bade him come in,

still playing.

But as he entered, she stopped suddenly, and the smile which had flown

to her face to welcome him disappeared.

"Ley!" she breathed, looking up at his pale, haggard face and

dark-rimmed eyes; "what has happened? What is the matter?"

He stood beside her, and bent and kissed her; his lips were dry and

burning.

"Ley! Ley!" she murmured, and put her white arm round his neck to draw

him down to her, "what is it?"

Then she scanned him with loving anxiety.

"How tired you look, Ley! Where have you been? Sit down!"

He sank into a low seat at her feet, and motioned to the piano.

"Go on playing," he said.

She started at his hoarse, dry voice, but turned to the piano, and

played softly, and presently she knew, rather than saw, that he had

hidden his face in his hands.

Then she stopped and bent over him.

"Now tell me, Ley!" she murmured.

He looked up with a bitter smile that cut her to the heart.

"It is soon told, Lil," he said, in a low voice, "and it is only an

old, old story!"

"Ley!"

"I can tell you--I could tell only you, Lil--in a very few words. I

have loved--and been deceived."

She did not speak, but she put her hand on his head where it lay like a

peaceful benediction.

"I have staked my all, all my happiness and peace, upon a cast and have

lost. I am very badly hit, and naturally I feel it very badly for a

time!"

"Ley!" she murmured, reproachfully, "you must not talk to _me_ like

this; speak from your heart."

"I haven't any left, Lil!" he said; "there is only an aching void where

my heart used to be. I lost it weeks ago--or was it months or years? I

can't tell which now!--and she to whom I gave it, she whom I thought

an angel of purity, a dove of innocence, has thrown it in the dirt and

trampled upon it!"

"Ley, Ley, you torture me! Of whom are you speaking?"

"Of whom should I be speaking but the one woman the world holds for me?"

"Lenore!" she murmured, incredulously.

"Lenore!" and he laughed bitterly. "No; she did not pronounce her name

so. I am speaking and thinking of Stella Etheridge."

Her hand trembled, but she did not withdraw it.

"Stella?"

"Yes," he said, and his lips twitched. "A star. A star that will shine

in another man's bosom, not in mine as I, fool that I was, dreamed

that it would. Lil, I believe that there is only one good woman in the

world, and she sits near me now."

"Oh, Ley, Ley--but tell me!"

"There is so little to tell," he said, wearily. "I cannot tell you all.

This will suffice, that to-night I expected and hoped to have been able

to call her my wife, instead--well, you see, I am sitting here!"

"Your wife?" she murmured. "Stella Etheridge your wife. Was that--that

wise, Ley?"

"Wise! What have I to do with wisdom?" he retorted. "I loved her--loved

her passionately, madly, as I never, nor shall ever, love another

woman! Heaven help me, I love her now! Don't you see that is the worst

part of it. I know, as surely as I am sitting here, that my life has

gone. It has gone to pieces on the rocks like a goodly ship, and there

is an end of it!"

There was silence for a moment, then she spoke, and, woman-like, her

thoughts were of the woman.

"But she, Ley? How is it with her?"

He laughed again, and the gentle girl shuddered.

"Don't Ley," she murmured.

"She will be all right," he said. "Women are made like that--all

excepting one," and he touched her dress.

"And yet--and yet," she murmured, troubled and sorrowful, "now I look

back I am sure that she loved you, Ley! I remember her face, the look

of her eyes, the way she spoke your name. Oh, Ley, she loved you!"

"She did--perhaps. She loves me now so well, that on our

wedding-day--wedding-day!--she allows a man to step in between us and

claim her as his own!"

Maddened by the memory which her words had called up he would have

risen, but she held him down with a gentle hand.

"A man! What man, Ley?"

"One called Jasper Adelstone, a lawyer; a man it would be gross

flattery to call even a gentleman! Think of it, Lil. Picture it! I wait

to receive my bride, and instead of it happening so, I am sent for to

meet her at this man's chambers. There I am informed that all is over

between us, and that she is the affianced wife of Mr. Jasper Adelstone."

"But the reason--the reason?"

"There is none!" he exclaimed, rising and pacing the room, "I am

vouchsafed no reason. The bare facts are deemed sufficient for me. I am

cast adrift, as something no longer necessary or needful, without word

of reason or even of rhyme!" and he laughed.

She was silent for a moment, then a murmur broke from her lips.

"Poor girl!"

He stooped and looked down at her.

"Do not waste your pity, Lil," he said, with a grim smile. "With her

own lips she declared that what she did she did of her own free will!"

"With this man standing by her side?"

He started, then he shook his head.

"I know what you mean!" he said, hoarsely. "And do you not see that

that is the worst of it. She is in his power; there is some secret

understanding between them. Can I marry a woman who is in another man's

power so completely that she is forced to break her word to me, to jilt

me for him!--can I?"

His voice was so hoarse and harsh as to be almost inarticulate, and he

stood with outstretched, appealing hands, as if demanding an answer.

What could she say? For a moment she was silent, then she put out her

hand to him.

"And you have left her with him, Ley?"

The question sent all the blood from his face.

"Yes," he said, wearily, "I have left her with her future husband.

Possibly, probably, by this time she has become his wife. One man can

procure a marriage license as easily as another."

"You did that! What would papa and my mother have said?" she murmured.

He laughed.

"What did, what should I care? I tell you I loved her madly; you do not

know, cannot understand what such love means! Know, then, Lil, that I

would rather have died than lose her--that, having lost her, life has

become void and barren for me--that the days and hours until I forget

her will be so much time of torture and regret, and vain, useless

longing. I shall see her face, hear her voice, wherever I may be, in

the day or in the night; and no pleasure, no pain will efface her from

my memory or my heart."

"Oh, Ley!--my poor Ley!"

"Thus it is with me. And now I have come to say 'good-bye.'"

"Good-bye. You are going--where?"

"Where?" he echoed, with the same discordant laugh. "I neither know nor

care. I am afraid all places will be alike for awhile. The whole earth

is full of her; there is not a wild flower that will not remind me of

her, not a sound of music that will not recall her voice. If I meet

a woman I shall compare her with my Stella--_my_ Stella! no, Jasper

Adelstone's! Oh, Heaven! I could bear all but that. If she were dead, I

should have at least one comfort--the consolation of knowing that she

had belonged to no other man--that in some other remote world we might

meet again, and I might claim her as mine! But that is denied to me. My

white angel is stained and besmirched, and is mine no longer!"

Worn out by the passion of his grief, he dropped on the seat at her

feet, and hid his face in his hands.

She put her arm round his neck, but spoke no word. Words at such

moments are like gnats round a wound--they can only irritate, they

cannot heal.

They sat thus motionless for some minutes, then he rose, calmer but

very white and worn.

"This is weak of me, worse than weak, inconsiderate, Lil," he said,

with a wan smile. "You have so much of your own sorrows that you should

be spared the recital of other people's woes. I will go now. Good-bye,

Lil!"

"Oh, what can I do for you?" she murmured. "My dear! My dear!"

He stooped and kissed her, and looked down at her pale face so full of

sorrow for his sorrow, and his heart grew calmer and more resigned.

"Nothing, Lil," he said.

"Yes," she said in a low voice; "if I can do nothing else I can pray

for you, Ley!"

He smiled and stroked her hair.

"You are an angel, Lil," he said, softly. "If all women were made like

you, there would be no sin and little sorrow in the world. In the

future that lies black and drear before me I shall think of you. Yes,

pray for me, Lil. Good-bye!" and he kissed her again.

She held him to the last, then when he had gone she buried her face in

her hands and cried. But suddenly she sat up and touched the bell that

stood near her.

"Crying will do no good for my Ley," she murmured. "I must do more

than that. Oh, if I could be strong and hale like other girls for an

hour, one short hour! But I will, I must do something! I cannot see him

suffer so and do nothing!"

Her one special maid, a girl who had been with her since her childhood

and knew every mood and change in her, came in and hurried to her side

at the sight of her tear-dimmed eyes.

"Oh, Lady Lilian, what is the matter? You have been crying!"

"A little, Jeanette," she said, smiling through her tears. "I am in

great trouble--Lord Leycester is in great trouble----"

"I have just met him, my lady, looking so ill and worried."

"Yes, Jeanette; he is in great trouble, and I want to help him," and

then, with fear and trembling, she announced an intention she had

suddenly formed. Jeanette was aghast for a time, but at last she

yielded, and hurried away to make the preparation for the execution of

her beloved mistress's wishes.