"But you were children then, and it was perhaps all childish folly."

"It was nothing of the kind," said the heiress, angrily. "I remember well that, when I was presented, my mother said to me, 'Philippa, you are sure to be very much admired; but remember, I consider you engaged to Norman. Your lot in life is settled; you are to be Lady Arleigh of Beechgrove.'"

"But," interposed Lady Peters, "it seems to me, Philippa, that this was all your mother's fancy. Because you played together as children—because, when you were a child he called you his little wife—because your mother and his were dear friends, and liked the arrangement—it does not follow that he would like it, or that he would choose the playmate of his childhood as the love of his manhood. In all that you have said to me, I see no evidence that he loves you, or that he considers himself in any way bound to you."

"That is because you do not understand. He has been in England only two days, yet, you see, he comes to visit me."

"That may be for old friendship's sake," said Lady Peters. "Oh, my darling, be careful! Do not give the love of your heart and soul for nothing."

"It is given already," confessed the girl, "and can never be recalled, no matter what I get in return. Why, it is twenty minutes past three; do you think he will come?"

Philippa L'Estrange rose from the couch and went to the long open window.

"I have never seen the sun shine so brightly before," she said; and Lady Peters sighed as she listened. "The world has never looked so beautiful as it does to-day. Oh, Norman, make, haste! I am longing to see you."

She had a quaint, pretty fashion of calling Lady Peters by the French appellation maman. She turned to her now, with a charming smile. She shook out the perfumed folds of her dress—she smoothed the fine white lace.

"You have not told me, maman," she said, "whether I am looking my best to-day. I want Norman to be a little surprised when he sees me. If you saw me for the first time to-day, would you think me nice?"

"I should think you the very queen of beauty," was the truthful answer.

A pleased smile curved the lovely, scarlet lips.

"So will Norman. You will see, maman, there is no cause for anxiety, none for fear. You will soon be wondering why you looked so grave over my pretty love story."

"It seems to me," observed Lady Peters, "that it is a one sided story. You love him—you consider yourself betrothed to him. What will you say or do, Philippa, if you find that, during his travels, he has learned to love some one else? He has visited half the courts of Europe since he left here; he must have seen some of the loveliest women in the world. Suppose he has learned to love one—what then?"

The beautiful face darkened.

"What then, maman? I know what I should do, even in that case. He belonged to me before he belonged to any one else, and I should try to win him back again."

"But if his word were pledged?"

"He must break his pledge. It would be war to the knife; and I have an idea that in the end I should win."

"But," persisted Lady Peters, "if you lost—what then?"

"Ah, then I could not tell what would happen! Love turns to burning hate at times. If I failed I should seek revenge. But we will not talk of failure. Oh, maman, there he is."

How she loved him! At the sound of his footsteps a crimson glow shone in her face, a light shone in the depth of her splendid dark eyes; the scarlet lips trembled. She clenched her fingers lest a sound that might betray her should escape her.

"Lord Arleigh," announced a servant at the door.

Tall, stately, self-possessed, she went forward to greet him. She held out her hand; but words failed her, as she looked once more into the face she loved so well.

"Philippa!" cried the visitor, in tones of wonder. "I expected to find you changed, but I should not have known you."

"Am I so greatly altered?" she asked.

"Altered?" he repeated, "I left you a pretty school-girl—I find you a queen." He bowed low over the white hand.

"The queen bids you welcome," she said, and then after introducing Lady Peters, she added: "Should you not really have known me, Norman?"

He had recovered from his first surprise, and Lady Peters, who watched him closely, fancied that she detected some little embarrassment in his manner. Of one thing she was quite sure—there was admiration and affection in his manner, but there was nothing resembling love.

He greeted her, and then took a seat, not by Philippa's side, but in one of the pretty lounging chairs by the open window.

"How pleasant it is to be home again!" he said. "How pleasant, Philippa, to see you!" And then he began to talk of Lady L'Estrange. "It seems strange," he went on, "that your mother and mine, after being such true friends in life, should die within a few days of each other. I would give the whole world to see my mother again. I shall find Beechgrove so lonely without her."

"I always recognize a good man," put in Lady Peters, "by the great love he bears his mother."

Lord Arleigh smiled.

"Then you think I am a good man?" he interrogated. "I hope, Lady Peters, that I shall never forfeit your good opinion."

"I do not think it likely," said her ladyship.

Philippa grew impatient on finding his attention turned, even for a few moments, from herself.

"Talk to me, Norman," she said; "tell me of your travels—of what you have seen and done—of the new friends you have made."

"I have made no new friends, Philippa," he said; "I love the old ones best."

He did not understand the triumphant expression of the dark eyes as they glanced at Lady Peters. He told her briefly of the chief places that he had visited, and then he said:

"What a quantity of flowers you have, Philippa! You still retain your old love."

She took a spray of lilac from one of the vases and held it before him. Again Lady Peters noted confusion on his face.

"Do you remember the lilac, and what you said about it?" she asked.

"Yes," he replied, "I was in Florence last year when they were in flower, and I never looked at the beautiful blooming trees without fancying that I saw my cousin's face among the blossoms."

"Why do you call me 'cousin?'" she asked, impatiently.

He looked up in surprise.

"You are my cousin, are you not, Philippa?"

"I am only your second cousin," she said; "and you have never called me so before."

"I have always called you 'cousin' in my thoughts," he declared. "How remiss I am!" he exclaimed, suddenly. "You will think that I have forgotten what little manners I had. I never congratulated you on your success."

"What success?" she asked, half impatiently.

"I have not been twenty-four hours in London, yet I have heard on all sides of your charms and conquests. I hear that you are the belle of the season—that you have slain dukes, earls, marquises, and baronets indiscriminately. I hear that no one has ever been more popular or more admired that Philippa L'Estrange. Is it all true?"

"You must find out for yourself," she said, laughingly, half disappointed that he had laid the spray of lilac down without any further remark, half disappointed that he should speak in that light, unconcerned fashion about her conquests; he ought to be jealous, but evidently he was not.

Then, to her delight, came a summons for Mrs. Peters; she was wanted in the housekeeper's room.

"Now we are alone," thought Philippa, "he will tell me that he is pleased to see me. He will remember that he called me his little wife."

But, as Lady Peters closed the door, he took a book from the table, and asked her what she had been reading lately—which was the book of that season. She replied to his questions, and to the remarks that followed; but they were not what she wanted to hear.

"Do not talk to me about books, Norman," she cried at last. "Tell me more about yourself; I want to hear more about you."

She did not notice the slight flush that spread over his face.

"If we are to talk about ourselves," he said, "I should prefer you to be the subject. You have grown very beautiful, Philippa."

His eyes took in every detail of the rich amber costume—the waving mass of dark hair—the splendid face, with its scarlet lips and glorious eyes—the white hands that moved so incessantly. He owned to himself that in all his travels he had seen nothing like the imperial loveliness of this dark-eyed girl.

"Does it please you to find me what you call beautiful?" she asked, shyly.

"Of course it does. I am very proud of you—proud to be known as the cousin of Philippa L'Estrange."

Nothing more! Had he nothing more than this to be proud of? Was he so blind that he could not see love in the girl's face—so deaf that he could not hear it in the modulations of her musical voice? She bent her beautiful face nearer him.

"We were always good friends, Norman," she said, simply, "you and I?"

"Yes, we were like brother and sister," he responded, "How we quarreled and made friends! Do you remember?"

"Yes—but we were not like brother and sister, Norman. We did not call each other by such names in those days, did we?"

"I never could find names pretty enough for you," he replied laughingly.

She raised her eyes suddenly to his.

"You cared for me a great deal in those days, Norman," she said, gently. "Tell me the truth—in your travels have you ever met any one for whom you care more?"

He was perfectly calm and unembarrassed.

"No, cousin, I have not. As I told you before, I have really made no friends abroad for whom I care much—a few pleasant acquaintances, nothing more."

"Then I am content," she said.

But he was deaf to the passionate music of her voice. Then the distance between them seemed to grow less. They talked of her home, Verdun Royal; they talked of Beechgrove, and his plans for living there. Their conversation was the intimate exchange of thought of old friends; but there was nothing of love. If she had expected that he would avail himself of Lady Peters' absence to speak of it, she was mistaken. He talked of old times, of friendship, of childhood's days, of great hopes and plans for the future—of anything but love. It seemed to be and perhaps was the farthest from his thoughts.

"I am going to Beechgrove in a week," he said; "you will give me permission to call and see you every day, Philippa?"

"I shall be pleased to see you—my time is yours," she answered but he did not understand the full meaning of the words.

Then Lady Peters came in and asked if he would join them at dinner.

"Philippa likes gayety," she said; "we have never had one quiet evening since the season began; she has a ball for to-night."

"Yes," laughed the heiress; "the world is very sweet to me just now, Norman; but I will give up my ball and stay at home purposely to sing to you, if you will dine with us."

"That is a temptation I cannot resist," he returned. "I will come. All your disappointed partners will, however, vent their wrath on me, Philippa."

"I can bear it," she said, "and so can you. Now I can let you go more willingly, seeing that I shall soon see you again."

And then he went away. After he had gone she spoke but little; once she clasped her arms round Lady Peters' neck and kissed the kindly face.

"Do not speak to me," she said, "lest I should lose the echo of his voice;" and Lady Peters watched her anxiously, as she stood with a rapt smile on her face, as of one who has heard celestial music in a dream.

* * * * *

The Arleighs of Beechgrove had for many generations been one of the wealthiest as well as one of the noblest families in England. To Norman, Lord Arleigh, who had succeeded his father at the early age of twenty, all this good gift of fame, fortune, and wealth had now fallen. He had inherited also the far-famed Arleigh beauty. He had clear-cut features, a fair skin, a fine manly frame, a broad chest, and erect, military bearing; he had dark hair and eyes, with straight, clear brows, and a fine, handsome mouth, shaded by a dark mustache Looking at him it was easy to understand his character. There was pride in the dark eyes, in the handsome face, in the high-bred manner and bearing, but not of a common kind.

In accordance with his late father's wish, he had gone through the usual course of studies. He had been to Eton and to Oxford; he had made the usual continental tour; and now he had returned to live as the Arleighs had done before him—a king on his own estate. There was just one thing in his life that had not pleased him. His mother, Lady Arleigh, had always evinced the greatest affection for her cousin, the gentle Lady L'Estrange. She had paid long visits to Verdun Royal, always taking her son with her; and his earliest recollection was of his mother and Lady L'Estrange sitting side by side planning the marriage of their two children, Philippa and Norman. He could remember many of his mother's pet phrases—"So suitable," "A perfect marriage," "The desire of my heart." All his mother's thoughts and ideas seemed to begin and end there. He had been taught, half seriously, half in jest, to call Philippa his little wife, to pay her every attention, to present her with jewels and with flowers, to make her his chief study. While be was still a boy he had only laughed at it.

Philippa was a beautiful, high-sprited girl. Her vivacity and animation amused him. He had spoken the truth in saying that he had met no one he liked better than his old friend. He had seen beautiful girls, lovely women, but he had not fallen in love. Indeed, love with the Arleighs was a serious matter. They did not look lightly upon it. Norman. Lord Arleigh, had not fallen; in love, but he had begun to think very seriously about Philippa L'Estrange. He had been fond of her as a child, with the kind of affection that often exists between children. He had called her his "little wife" in jest, not in earnest. He had listened to the discussions between the two ladies as he would have listened had they been talking about adding a new wing to the house. It was not until he came to the years of manhood that he began to see how serious the whole matter was. Then he remembered with infinite satisfaction that there had been nothing binding, that he had never even mentioned the word "love" to Philippa L'Estrange, that he had never made love to her, that the whole matter was merely a something that had arisen in the imagination of two ladies.

He was not in the least degree in love with Philippa. She was a brunette—he preferred a blonde; brunette beauty had no charm for him. He liked gentle, fair-haired women, tender of heart and soul—brilliancy did not charm him. Even when, previously to going abroad, he had gone down to Verdun Royal to say good-by, there was not the least approach to love in his heart. He had thought Philippa very charming and very picturesque as she stood under the lilac-trees; he had said truly that he should never see a lilac without thinking of her as she stood there. But that had not meant that he loved her.

He had bent down, as he considered himself in courtesy bound, to kiss her face when he bade her adieu; but it was no lover's kiss that fell so lightly on her lips. He realized to himself most fully the fact that, although he liked her, cared a great deal for her, and felt that she stood in the place of a sister to him, he did not love her.

But about Philippa herself? He was not vain; the proud, stately Lord Arleigh knew nothing of vanity. He could not think that the childish folly had taken deep root in her heart-he would not believe it. She had been a child like himself; perhaps even she had forgotten the nonsense more completely than he himself had. On his return to England, the first thing he heard when he reached London was that his old friend and playfellow—the girl he had called his little wife—was the belle of the season, with half London at her feet.



Chapter VII.



Lord Arleigh had been so accustomed to think of Philippa as a child that he could with difficulty imagine the fact that she was now a lovely girl, and one of the wealthiest heiresses in London. He felt some curiosity about her. How would she greet him? How would she receive him? He wrote to her at once, asking permission to visit her, and he came away from that visit with his eyes a little dazzled, his brain somewhat dazed, but his heart untouched. His fancy was somewhat disturbed by the haunting memory of dark, splendid eyes, lighted with fire and passion, and a bright, radiant face and scarlet lips—by a melange of amber, lace, and perfume—but his heart was untouched. She was beautiful beyond his fairest dreams of woman—he owned that to himself—but it was not the kind of beauty that he admired it was too vivid, too highly colored, too brilliant. He preferred the sweet, pure lily to the queenly rose. Still he said to himself that he had never seen a face or figure like Miss L'Estrange's. No wonder that she had half London at her feet.

He was pleased with her kind reception of him, although he had not read her welcome aright; he was too true a gentleman even to think that it was love which shone in her eyes and trembled on her lips—love which made her voice falter and die away—love which caused her to exert every art and grace of which she was mistress to fascinate him. He was delighted with her—his heart grew warm under the charm of her words, but he never dreamed of love.

He had said to himself that there must be no renewal of his childish nonsense of early days—that he must be careful not to allude to it; to do so would be in bad taste—not that he was vain enough to think she would attach any importance to it, even if he did so; but he was one of nature's gentlemen, and he would have scorned to exaggerate or to say one word more than he meant. Her welcome had been most graceful, most kind—the beautiful face had softened and changed completely for him. She had devoted herself entirely to him; nothing in all the wide world had seemed to her of the least interest except himself and his affairs—books, music, pictures, even herself, her own triumphs, were as nothing when compared with him. He would have been less than mortal not to have been both pleased and flattered.

Pressed so earnestly to return to dinner, he had promised to do so; and evening, the sweet-scented May evening, found him once more at Hyde Park. If anything, Philippa looked more lovely. She wore her favorite colors—amber and white—a dress of rich amber brocade, trimmed with white lace; the queenly head was circled with diamonds; jewels like fire gleamed on the white breast; there was a cluster of choice flowers in her bodice. He had seen her hitherto as a girl; now he was to see her as the high-bred hostess, the mistress of a large and magnificent mansion.

He owned to himself that she was simply perfect. He had seen nothing in better taste, although he had been on intimate terms with the great ones of the earth. As he watched her, he thought to himself that, high and brilliant as was her station, it was not yet high enough for her. She flung a charm so magical around her that he was insensibly attracted by it, yet he was not the least in love—nothing was further from his thoughts. He could not help seeing that, after a fashion, she treated him differently from her other guests. He could not have told why or how; he felt only a certain subtle difference; her voice seemed to take another tone in addressing him, her face another expression as though she regarded him as one quite apart from all others.

The dinner-party was a success, as was every kind of entertainment with which Philippa L'Estrange was concerned. When the visitors rose to take their leave, Norman rose also. She was standing near him.

"Do not go yet, Norman," she said; "it is quite early. Stay, and I will sing to you."

She spoke in so low a tone of voice that no one else heard her. He was quite willing. Where could he feel more at home than in this charming drawing-room, with this beautiful girl, his old friend and playmate?

She bade adieu to her visitors, and then turned to him with such a smile as might have lost or won Troy.

"I thought they would never go," she said; "and it seems to me that I have barely exchanged one word with you yet, Norman."

"We have talked many hours," he returned, laughing.

"Ah, you count time by the old fashion, hours and minutes. I forget it when I am talking to one I—to an old friend like you."

"You are enthusiastic," said Lord Arleigh, wondering at the light on the splendid face.

"Nay, I am constant," she rejoined.

And for a few minutes after that silence reigned between them. Philippa was the first to break it.

"Do you remember," she asked, "that you used to praise my voice, and prophesy that I should sing well?"

"Yes, I remember," he replied.

"I have worked hard at my music," she continued, "in the hope of pleasing you."

"In the hope of pleasing me?" he interrogated. "It was kind to think so much of me."

"Of whom should I think, if not of you?" she inquired.

There were both love and reproach in her voice—he heard neither. Had he been as vain as he was proud, he would have been quicker to detect her love for himself.

The windows had been opened because the evening air was so clear and sweet; it came in now, and seemed to give the flowers a sweeter fragrance. Lord Arleigh drew his chair to the piano.

"I want you only to listen," she said. "You will have no turning over to do for me; the songs I love best I know by heart. Shut your eyes, Norman, and dream."

"I shall dream more vividly if I keep them open and look at you," he returned.

Then in a few minutes he began to think he must be in dream-land—the rich, sweet voice, so clear, so soft, so low, was filling the room with sweetest music. It was like no human voice that he remembered; seductive, full of passion and tenderness—a voice that told its own story, that told of its owner's power and charm—a voice that carried away the hearts of the listeners irresistibly as the strong current carries the leaflet.

She sang of love, mighty, irresistible love, the king before whom all bow down; and as she sang he looked at her. The soft, pearly light of the lamps fell on her glorious face, and seemed to render it more beautiful. He wondered what spell was fast falling over him, for he saw nothing but Philippa's face, heard nothing but the music that seemed to steep his senses as in a dream.

How fatally, wondrously lovely she was, this siren who sang to him of love, until every sense was full of silent ecstasy, until his face flushed, and his heart beat fast. Suddenly his eyes met hers; the scarlet lips trembled, the white fingers grew unsteady; her eyelids drooped, and the sweet music stopped.

She tried to hide her confusion by smiling.

"You should not look at me, Norman," she said, "when I sing; it embarrasses me."

"You should contrive to look a little less beautiful then, Philippa," he rejoined. "What was that last song?"

"It is a new one," she replied, "called 'My Queen.'"

"I should like to read the words," said Lord Arleigh.

In a few minutes she had found it for him, and they bent over the printed page together; her dark hair touched his cheek, the perfume from the white lilies she wore seemed to entrance him; he could not understand the spell that lay over him.

"Is it not beautiful?" she said.

"Yes, beautiful, but ideal; few women, I think, would equal this poet's queen."

"You do not know—you cannot tell, Norman. I think any woman who loves, and loves truly, becomes a queen."

He looked at her, wondering at the passion in her voice—wondering at the expression on her beautiful face.

"You are incredulous," she said; "but it is true. Love is woman's dominion; let her but once enter it, and she becomes a queen; her heart and soul grow grander, the light of love crowns her. It is the real diadem of womanhood, Norman; she knows no other."

He drew back startled; her words seemed to rouse him into sudden consciousness. She was quick enough to see it, and, with the distrait manner of a true woman of the world, quickly changed the subject. She asked some trifling question about Beechgrove, and then said, suddenly:

"I should like to see that fine old place of yours, Norman. I was only ten when mamma took me there the last time; that was rather too young to appreciate its treasures. I should like to see it again."

"I hope you will see it, Philippa; I have many curiosities to show you. I have sent home treasures from every great city I have visited."

She looked at him half wonderingly, half wistfully, but he said no more. Could it be that he had no thought of ever asking her to be mistress and queen of this house of his?

"You must have a party in the autumn," she said. "Lady Peters and I must be among your guests."

"That will be an honor. I shall keep you to your word, Philippa." And then he rose to go.

The dark, wistful eyes followed him. She drew a little nearer to him as he held out his hand to say good-night.

"You are quite sure, Norman, that you are pleased to see me again?" she interrogated, gently.

"Pleased! Why, Philippa, of course I am. What a strange question!"

"Because," she said, "there seems to be a cloud—a shadow—between us that I do not remember to have existed before."

"We are both older," he explained, "and the familiarity of childhood cannot exist when childhood ceases to be."

"I would rather be a child forever than that you should change to me," she said, quickly.

"I think," he returned, gravely, "that the only change in me is that I admire you more than I have ever done"

And these words filled her with the keenest sense of rapture yet they were but commonplace enough, if she had only realized it.



Chapter VIII.



Lord Arleigh raised his hat from his brow and stood for a few minutes bareheaded in the starlight. He felt like a man who had been in the stifling atmosphere of a conservatory; warmth and perfume had dazed him. How beautiful Philippa was—how bewildering! What a nameless wondrous charm there was about her! No wonder that half London was at her feet, and that her smiles were eagerly sought. He was not the least in love with her; admiration, homage, liking, but not love—anything but that—filled him; yet he dreamed of her, thought of her, compared her face with others that he had seen—all simply because her beauty had dazed him.

"I can believe now in the sirens of old," he said to himself; "they must have had just such dark, glowing eyes, such rich, sweet voices and beautiful faces. I should pity the man who hopelessly loved Philippa L'Estrange. And, if she ever loves any one, it will be easy for her to win; who could resist her?"

How little he dreamed that the whole passionate love of her heart was given to himself—that to win from him one word of love, a single token of affection, she would have given all that she had in the world.

On the day following he received a note; it said simply:

"Dear Norman: Can you join me in a ride? I have a new horse which they tell me is too spirited. I shall not be afraid to try it if you are with me.

"Yours, Philippa."

He could not refuse—indeed, he never thought of refusing—why should he? The beautiful girl who asked this kindness from him was his old friend and playfellow. He hastened to Verdun House and found Philippa waiting for him.

"I knew you would come," she said. "Lady Peters said you would be engaged. I thought differently."

"You did well to trust me," he returned, laughingly; "it would require a very pressing engagement to keep me from the pleasure of attending you."

He had thought her perfect on the previous evening, in the glitter of jewels and the gorgeous costume of amber and while; yet, if possible, she looked even better on this evening. Her riding-habit was neat and plain, fitting close to the perfect figure, showing every gracious line and curve.

Philippa L'Estrange possessed that rare accomplishment among women, a graceful "seat" on horseback. Lord Arleigh could not help noticing the admiring glances cast on her as they entered the park together. He saw how completely she was queen of society. Unusual homage followed her. She was the observed of all observers; all the men seemed to pause and look at her. Lord Arleigh heard repeatedly, as they rode along, the question, "Who is that beautiful girl?" Every one of note or distinction contrived to speak to her. The Prince of Auboine, at that time the most feted guest in England, could hardly leave her. Yet, in the midst of all, Lord Arleigh saw that she turned to him as the sunflower to the sun. No matter with whom she was conversing, she never for one moment forgot him, never seemed inattentive, listened to him, smiled her brightest on him, while the May sun shone, and the white hawthorn flowers fell on the grass—while the birds chirped merrily, and crowds of bright, happy people passed to and fro.

"How true she is to her old friends!" thought Lord Arleigh, when he saw that even a prince could not take her attention from him.

So they rode on through the sunlit air—he fancy free, she loving him every moment with deeper, truer, warmer love.

"I should be so glad, Norman," she said to him, "if you would give me a few riding-lessons. I am sure I need them."

He looked at the graceful figure, at the little hands that held the reins so deftly.

"I do not see what there is to teach you," he observed; "I have never seen any one ride better."

"Still I should be glad of some little instruction from you," she said. "I always liked riding with you, Norman."

"I shall be only too pleased to ride with you every day when I am in town," he told her; and, though he spoke kindly, with smiling lips, there was no warmth of love in his tone.

The day was very warm—the sun had in it all the heat of June. When they reached Verdun House, Philippa said:

"You will come in for a short time, Norman? You look warm and tired. Williams—the butler—is famous for his claret-cup."

He murmured something about being not fatigued, but disinclined for conversation.

"You will not see any one," she said; "you shall come to my own particular little room, where no one dares enter, and we will have a quiet conversation there."

It seemed quite useless to resist her. She had a true siren power of fascination. The next minute saw him seated in the cool, shady boudoir, where the mellow light came in, rose-filtered through the silken blinds, and the perfumed air was sweet. Lady Peters, full of solicitude, was there, with the iced claret cup, thinking he was tired and-warm. It was so like home that he could not help feeling happy.

Presently Lady Peters retired for a few minutes, and in came Philippa. She had changed her riding-costume for a white silk neglige that fell round her in loose, graceful folds. She wore no flowers, jewels, or ribbons, but the dark masses of her hair were unfastened, and hung round the white neck; there was a warm, bright flush on her face, with the least touch of languor in her manner. She threw herself back in her lounging chair, saying, with a dreamy smile:

"You see that I make no stranger of you, Norman."

From beneath the white silken folds peeped a tiny embroidered slipper; a jeweled fan lay near her, and with it she gently stirred the perfumed air. He watched her with admiring eyes.

"You look like a picture that I have seen, Philippa," he said.

"What picture?" she asked, with a smile.

"I cannot tell you, but I am quite sure I have seen one like you. What picture would you care to resemble?"

A sudden gleam of light came into her dark eyes.

"The one underneath which you would write 'My Queen,'" she said, hurriedly.

He did not understand.

"I think every one with an eye to beauty would call you 'queen,'" he observed, lightly. The graver meaning of her speech had quite escaped him.

Then Lady Peters returned, and the conversation changed.

"We are going to hear an opera-bouffe to-night," said Philippa, when Lord Arleigh was leaving. "Will you come and be our escort?"

"You will have a box filled with noisy chatterers the whole night," he remarked, laughingly.

"They shall all make room for you, Norman, if you will come," she said. "It is 'La Grande Duchesse,' with the far-famed Madame Schneider as her Grace of Gerolstein."

"I have not heard it yet," returned Lord Arleigh. "I cannot say that I have any great admiration for that school of music, but, if you wish it, I will go, Philippa.

"It will increase my enjoyment a hundredfold," she said, gently, "if you go."

"How can I refuse when you say that? I will be here punctually," he promised; and again the thought crossed his mind how true she was to her old friends—how indifferent to new ones!

On that evening Philippa changed her customery style of dress—it was no longer the favorite amber, so rich in hue and in texture, but white, gleaming silk, relieved by dashes of crimson. A more artistic or beautiful dress could not have been designed. She wore crimson roses in her dark hair, and a cluster of crimson roses on her white breast. Her bouquet was of the same odorous flowers. In the theater Lord Arleigh noticed that Philippa attracted more attention than any one else, even though the house was crowded; he saw opera-glasses turned constantly toward her beautiful face.

Miss L'Estrange kept her word, saying but little to those who would fain have engrossed her whole attention—that was given, to Lord Arleigh. She watched his face keenly throughout the performance. He did not evince any great interest in it.

"You do not care for 'La Grande Duchesse?'" she said.

"No—frankly, I do not," he replied.

"Tell me why," said Philippa.

"Can you ask me to do so, Philippa?" he returned, surprised; and then he added, "I will tell you. First of all, despite the taking music, it is a performance to which I should not care to bring my wife and sister."

"Tell me why?" she said, again.

"It lowers my idea of womanhood. I could not forgive the woman, let her be duchess or peasant, who could show any man such great love, who could lay herself out so deliberately to win a man."

She looked at him gravely. He continued:

"Beauty is very charming, I grant—as are grace and talent; but the chief charm to me of a woman is her modesty. Do you not agree with me, Philippa?"

"Yes," she replied, "most certainly I do; but, Norman, you are hard upon us. Suppose that, woman loves a man ever so truly—she must not make any sign?"

"Any sign she might make would most certainly, in my opinion, lessen her greatest charm," he said.

"But," she persisted, "do you not think that is rather hard? Why must a woman never evince a preference for the man she loves?"

"Woman should be wooed—never be wooer," said Lord Arleigh.

"Again I say you are hard, Norman. According to you, a woman is to break her heart in silence and sorrow for a man, rather than give him the least idea that she cares for him."

"I should say there is a happy medium between the Duchess of Gerolstein and a broken heart. Neither men nor women can help their peculiar disposition, but in my opinion a man never more esteems a woman than when he sees she wants to win his love."

He spoke with such perfect freedom from all consciousness that she knew the words could not be intended for her; nevertheless she had learned a lesson from them.

"I am like yourself, Norman," she said; "I do not care for the play at all; we will go home," and they left the house before the Grand Duchess had played her part.



Chapter IX.



Philippa L'Estrange thought long and earnestly over her last conversation with Lord Arleigh. She had always loved him; but the chances are that, if he had been devoted to her on his return, if he had wooed her as others did, she would have been less empressee. As it was, he was the only man she had not conquered, the only one who resisted her, on whom her fascinations fell without producing a magical effect. She could not say she had conquered her world while he was unsubdued. Yet how was it? She asked herself that question a hundred times each day. She was no coquette, no flirt, yet she knew she had but to smile on a man to bring him at once to her feet; she had but to make the most trifling advance, and she could do what she would. The Duke of Mornton had twice repeated his offer of marriage—she had refused him. The Marquis of Langland, the great match of the day, had made her an offer, which she had declined. The Italian Prince Cetti would have given his possessions to take her back with him to his own sunny land, but she had refused to go. No woman in England had had better offers of marriage; but she had refused them all. How was it that, when others sighed so deeply and vainly at her feet, Lord Arleigh alone stood aloof?

Of what use were her beauty, wit, grace, wealth, and talent, if she could not win him? For the first time she became solicitous about her beauty, comparing it with that of other women, always being compelled, in the end, to own that she excelled. If Lord Arleigh talked, or danced, or showed attention to any lady, she would critically examine her claim to interest, whether she was beautiful, mentally gifted, graceful. But Philippa detected another thing—if Lord Arleigh did not love her, it was at least certain that he loved no one else.

The whole world was spoiled for her because she had not this man's love. She desired it. Her beauty, her wealth, her talents, her grace, were all as nothing, because with them she could not win him. Then, again, she asked herself, could it be that she could not win him? What had men told her? That her beauty was irresistible. It might be that he did care for her, that he intended to carry out his mother's favorite scheme, but that he was in no hurry, that he wanted her and himself to see plenty of life first. It was easier, after all, to believe that than to think that she had completely failed to win him. She would be quite satisfied if it were so, although it was certainly not flattering to her that he should be willing to wait so long; but, if he would only speak—if he would only say the few words that would set her mind quite at ease—she would be content.

Why did he not love her? She was fair, young, endowed with great gifts; she had wealth, position; she had the claim upon him that his mother and hers had wished the alliance. Why did she fail? why did he not love her? It seemed to her that she was the one person in all the world to whom he would naturally turn—that, above all others, he would select her for his wife; yet he did not evince the least idea of so doing. Why was it?

Twice that night when he had so frankly told her his ideas about women, she had been most careful, most reserved.

"If he likes reserve and indifference," she said to herself, "he shall have plenty of it." Yet it was at the same time so mixed with kindness, with thoughtful consideration for him, that the wonder was he did not succumb. "I must find out," she said to herself, "whether he does really care for me." How to do so she did not quite know—but woman's wits are proverbially keen.

The more she saw of him the better she liked him—his single-mindedness, his chivalry, his faith in women and his respect for them, were greater than she had seen in any other, and she loved him for these qualities. The more she contrasted him with others, the greater, deeper, and wider grew her love. It must be that in time he should care for her.

The Duchess of Aytoun gave a grand ball, to which, as belle of the season, Philippa was invited.

"Shall you go?" she asked of Lord Arleigh.

"I have hardly decided," he replied.

"Do go, Norman; I like waltzing, but I do not care to waltz with every one. Do go, that I may dance with you."

"You do not mind waltzing with me, then?" he said.

The glance she gave him was answer sufficient. He could not kelp feeling flattered.

"I shall be there, Philippa," he said; and then she promised herself on that evening she would try to discover what his sentiments were with regard to her.

She took great pains with her toilet; she did not wish to startle, but to attract—and the two things were very different. Her dress looked brilliant, being of a silvery texture; the trimming was composed of small fern-leaves; a parure of fine diamonds crowned her head.

The effect of the dress was striking, and Philippa herself had never looked more lovely. There was a flush of rose-color on her face, a light in her eyes. If ever woman's face told a story, hers did—if ever love softened, made more tender and pure any face on earth, it was hers.

After her toilet was complete, she stood for a few minutes looking in her mirror. The tall, stately figure in the glorious dress was perfect; the face, framed in shining masses of dark hair, was perfect too.

"If I can but win one word from him!" she thought. "If I can but remind him of those childish days when he used to call me his little wife!"

She no sooner made her appearance than, as was usual, she was surrounded by a little court of admirers—the Duke of Mornton first among them. They little guessed that they owed her complacent reception of their compliments to the fact that she was not even attending to them, but with her whole soul in her eyes was watching for Lord Arleigh's arrival. The duke even flattered himself that he was making some progress, because at some chance word from him the beautiful face flushed a deep crimson. How was he to know that Lord Arleigh had at that moment entered the room?

The latter could not help feeling pleased and flattered at the way in which Philippa received him. He was but mortal, and he could not help seeing the dark eyes shine, the scarlet lips tremble, the whole face soften. Presently she placed her hand on his arm, and walked away with him.

"I was growing impatient, Norman," she said; and then, remembering his criticisms on the wooing of women, she hastened to add—"impatient at the want of novelty; it seems to me that in London ball-rooms all the men talk in the same fashion."

Lord Arleigh laughed.

"What are they to do, Philippa?" he asked. "They have each one the same duties to perform—to please their partners and amuse themselves. You would not have a 'hapless lordling' talk about science or metaphysics while he danced, would you?"

"No; but they might find some intelligent remarks to make. You talk well, Norman, and listening to you makes me impatient with others."

"You are very kind," he said, and he took the pretty tablets from her hand.

"You have saved every waltz for me, Philippa. I shall expect to have a dozen duels on my hands before morning."

"'This is my favorite," she said, as the music of the irresistible "Blue Danube" filled the room.

Then it seemed to her that they floated away into another sphere. His arm was round her, his eyes smiling down into hers. With youth, music, beauty, love, there was nothing wanting to complete the charm.

When it was over, he asked her if she would rest.

"No," said Philippa; "I heard the playing of a fountain in the fernery. I should like to go there."

They went through the magnificent suite of rooms, and then through the conservatory into the dim, beautiful fernery, where the lamps glowed like stars, and the cool rippling water fell with a musical rhythm into the deep basin below. They could hear the distant sound of music from the ball-room. It was a time when love, if it lay in a man's heart, would spring, into sweet, sudden life.

"If he loves me," she said to herself, "he will tell me so now."

"I like this better than the ball-room," she said. "By the way, you have not told me if you like my dress?" she added, anxious to bring him to the one subject she had at heart. "Do you remember that when we were children, Norman, you used to criticise my dress?"

"Did I? It was very rude of me. I should not venture to criticise anything so marvelous now. It is a wonderful dress, Philippa; in the light it looks like moonbeams, in the shade like snow. Do you suppose I should ever have the courage to criticise anything so beautiful?"

"Do you really like it, Norman—without flattery?"

"I never flatter, Philippa, not even in jest; you should know that."

"I never heard you flatter," she acknowledged. "I took pains with my toilet, Norman, to please you; if it does so I am well content."

"There is another waltz," said Lord Arleigh; "we will go back to the ball-room."

"Make him love me!" she said to herself, in bitter disdain. "I might as well wish for one of the stars as for his love—it seems just as far off."



Chapter X.



Lord Arleigh did not go to Beechgrove as he had intended. He found so many old friends and so many engagements in London that he was not inclined to leave it. Then, too, he began to notice many little things which made him feel uncomfortable. He began to perceive that people considered him in some kind of way as belonging to Miss L'Estrange; no matter how many surrounded her, when he entered a room they were seen one by one to disappear until he was left alone by her side. At first he believed this to be accidental; after a time he knew that it must be purposely done.

Miss L'Estrange, too, appeared to see and hear him only. If any one wanted to win a smile from her lovely lips, he had but to make way for Lord Arleigh; if any man wanted a kind word, or a kind glance from the beautiful eyes, he had but to praise Lord Arleigh. People soon perceived all this. The last to discover it was Lord Arleigh himself. It dawned but slowly upon him. He began to perceive also that Philippa, after a fashion of her own, appropriated him. She looked upon it as a settled arrangement that he should ride with her every day—that every day he must either lunch or dine with them—that he must be her escort to theater and ball. If he at times pleaded other engagements she would look at him with an air of childish wonder and say:

"They cannot have so great a claim upon you as I have, Norman?"

Then he was disconcerted, and knew not what to answer; it was true that there was no one with so great a claim—it seemed to have been handed down from his mother to him.

His eyes were still further opened one day when a large and fashionable crowd had gathered at Lady Dalton's garden-party. Philippa was, as heretofore, the belle, looking more than usually lovely in a light gossamer dress of white and pink. She was surrounded by admirers. Lord Arleigh stood with a group of gentlemen under a great spreading beech-tree.

"How beautiful she is, that Miss L'Estrange!" said one—Sir Alfred Martindale. "I can believe in the siege of Troy when I look at her; and I think it just as well for mankind that such women are rare."

"If ever there was a human moth," observed another, "it is that unfortunate Duke of Mornton. I have seen some desperate cases in my time, but none so desperate as his."

Lord Arleigh laughed. They were all intimate friends.

"The Duke of Mornton is a great friend of mine," he said. "I can only hope that he may be saved from the ultimate fate of a moth, and that Miss L'Estrange will take pity on him."

He could not help seeing that the three gentleman looked up with an expression of utter wonder.

"Do you mean," asked Sir Alfred, "that you hope Miss L'Estrange will marry the duke?"

"I do not think she could do better," replied Lord Arleigh.

"You are the last man in London I should have expected to hear say so," said Sir Alfred, quietly.

"Am I? Pray may I ask why?"

"Yes, if you acquit me of all intention of rudeness in my reply. I repeat that you are the last man in London whom I should have expected to hear make such a remark, for the simple reason that every one believes you are going to marry Miss L'Estrange yourself."

Lord Arleigh's face flushed hotly.

"Then 'every one,' as you put it, Sir Alfred, takes a great liberty—an unauthorized liberty—with the name of a very charming lady. Miss L'Estrange and myself were much together when children—our mothers were distantly related—and at the present time we are—excellent friends."

"I am sorry," returned Sir Alfred, "if I have said anything to annoy you. I thought the fact was as evident as the sun at noon-day; every one in London believes it."

"Then people take an unwarrantable liberty with the lady's name," said Lord Arleigh.

Some one else remarked, with a slightly impertinent drawl, that he did not believe Miss L'Estrange would consider it a liberty. A flash from Lord Arleigh's dark eyes silenced him.

A few minutes afterward Lord Arleigh found the Duchess of Aytoun and Philippa seated underneath a large acacia-tree. Captain Gresham, a great favorite in the London world, was by Philippa's side. The duchess, with a charming gesture of invitation made room for Lord Arleigh by her side. The gallant captain did not often find an opportunity of making love to the belle of the season. Now that he had found it, he was determined not to lose it—not for fifty Lord Arleighs. So, while the duchess talked to the new-comer, he relentlessly pursued his conversation with Miss L'Estrange.

There was but one music in the world for her, and that was the music of Lord Arleigh's voice. Nothing could ever drown that for her. The band was playing, the captain talking, the duchess conversing, in her gay, animated fashion; but above all, clearly and distinctly, Philippa heard every word that fell from Lord Arleigh's lips, although he did not know it. He believed that she was, as she seemed to be, listening to the captain.

"I have pleasing news concerning you, Lord Arleigh," said the duchess. "I wonder if I may congratulate you?"

"What is it? I do not know of anything very interesting concerning myself," he remarked—"nothing, I am sure, that calls for congratulation."

"You are modest," said the duchess; "but I have certainly heard, and on good authority, too, that you are about to be married."

"I can only say I was not in the least aware of it," he rejoined.

The duchess raised her parasol and looked keenly at him.

"Pray pardon me," she continued; "do not think that it is from mere curiosity that I ask the question. Is there really no truth in the report?"

"None whatever," he replied. "I have no more idea of being married than I have of sailing this moment for the Cape."

"It is strange," said the duchess, musingly; "I had the information from such good authority, too."

"There can be no better authority on the subject," said Lord Arleigh, laughingly, "than myself."

"You; I admit that. Well, as the ice is broken, Lord Arleigh, and we are old friends, I may ask, why do you not marry?"

"Simply because of marriage, and of love that ends in marriage, I have not thought," he answered lightly.

"It is time for you to begin," observed the duchess; "my own impression is that a man does no good in the world until he is married." And then she added: "I suppose you have an ideal of womanhood?"

Lord Arleigh's face flushed.

"Yes," he acknowledged, "I have an ideal of my own, derived from poetry I have read, from pictures I have seen—an ideal of perfect grace, loveliness, and purity. When I meet that ideal, I shall meet my fate."

"Then you have never yet seen the woman you would like to to marry?" pursued the duchess.

"No," he answered, quite seriously; "strange to say, although I have seen some of the fairest and noblest types of womanhood, I have not yet met with my ideal."

They were disturbed by a sudden movement—the flowers that Philippa held in her hand had fallen to the ground.



Chapter XI.



Captain Greshan sprang forward to lift the flowers which Miss L'Estrange had dropped.

"Nay," she said, "never mind them. A fresh flower is very nice. A flower that has once been in the dust has lost its beauty."

There was no trace of pain in the clear voice; it was rich and musical. Philippa L'Estrange, seated in the bright sunshine, heard the words that were to her a death-warrant, yet made no sign. "I have not yet met with my ideal," Lord Arleigh had said.

Captain Gresham picked up some of the fallen flowers.

"A dead flower from your hand, Miss L'Estrange," he observed "is worth a whole gardenful of living ones from any one else."

She laughed again that sweet musical laugh which seemed to come only from a happy heart; and then she looked round. The Duchess of Aytoun and Lord Arleigh were still in deep converse. Miss L'Estrange turned to Captain Gresham.

"I have been told," she said, "that there are some beautiful white hyacinths here; they are my favorite flowers. Shall we find them?"

He was only too pleased. She bade a laughing adieu to the duchess, and smiled at Lord Arleigh. There was no trace of pain or of sadness in her voice or face. They went away together and Lord Arleigh never even dreamed that she had heard his remark.

Then the duchess left him, and he sat under the spreading beech alone. His thoughts were not of the pleasantest nature; he did not like the general belief in his approaching marriage; it was fair neither to himself nor to Philippa—yet how was he to put an end to such gossip? Another idea occurred to him. Could it be possible that Philippa herself shared the idea? He would not believe it. Yet many things made him pause and think. She certainly evinced great preference for his society; she was never so happy as when with him. She would give up any engagement, any promised gayety or pleasure to be with him. She dressed to please him; she consulted him on most things; she seemed to identify her interests with his. But all this might be the result of their old friendship—it might have nothing to do with love.

Could it be possible that she still remembered the childish nonsense that had passed between them—that she considered either herself or him bound by a foolish tie that neither of them had contracted? Could it be possible that she regarded herself as engaged to him? The bare idea of it seemed absurd to him; he could not believe it. Yet many little things that he could not explain to himself made him feel uncomfortable and anxious. Could it be that she, the most beautiful and certainly the most popular woman in London, cared so much for him as to hold him by so slender a tie as their past childish nonsense?

He reproached himself for the thought, yet, do what he would, he could not drive it away. The suspicion haunted him; it made him miserable. If it was really so, what was he to do?

He was a gentleman, not a coxcomb. He could not go to this fair woman and ask her if it was really true that she loved him, if she really cared for him, if she held him by a tie contracted in childhood. He could not do it. He had not sufficient vanity. Why should he think that Philippa, who had some of the noblest men in England at her feet—why should life think that she would renounce all her brilliant prospects for him? Yet, if the mistake had really occurred—if she really thought the childish nonsense binding—if she really believed that he was about to make her his wife—it was high time that she was undeceived, that she knew the truth. And the truth was that although he had a great liking, a kindly affection for her, he was not in love with her. He admired her beauty—nay, he went further; he thought her the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, the most gifted, the most graceful. But he was not in love with her—never would be. She was not his type of woman, not his ideal. If she had been his sister, he would have loved her exceedingly—a brotherly affection was what he felt for her.

Yet how could he go to this fair woman with the ungracious words that he did not love her, and had no thought of marrying her? His face flushed hotly at the thought—there was something in it against which his whole manhood rose in hot rebellion Still it must be done; there must be no such shadow between them as this—there must be no such fatal mistake. If the report of their approaching marriage were allowed to remain much longer uncontradicted, why, then he would be in honor compelled to fulfill public expectations; and this he had no intention, no desire to do. The only thing therefore was to speak plainly to her.

How he hated the thought! How he loathed the idea! It seemed to him unmanly, most ignoble—and yet there was no help for it. There was one gleam of comfort for him, and only one. She was so quick, so keen, that she would be sure to understand him at once, without his entering into any long explanation. Few words would suffice, and those words he must choose as best he could. If it were possible, he would speak to her to-day—the sooner the better-and then all uncertainty would be ended. It seemed to him, as he pondered these things, that a cloud had fallen over the sunshine. In his heart he blamed the folly of that gentle mother who had been the cause of all this anxiety.

"Such matters are always best left alone," he said to himself, "If I should ever have children of my own, I will never interfere in their love affairs."

Think as he would ponder as he would, it was no easy task that lay before him—to tell her in so many words that he did not love her. Surely no man had ever had anything so ungracious to do before.

He looked round the grounds, and presently saw her the center of a brilliant group near the lake. The Duke of Ashwood was by her side, the elite of the guests had gathered round her. She—beautiful, bright, animated—was talking, as he could see, with her usual grace and ease. It struck him suddenly as absurd that this beautiful woman should care—as people said she did care—for him.

Let him get it all over. He longed to see the bright face shine on him with sisterly kindness, and to feel himself at ease with her; he longed to have all misunderstanding done away with.

He went up to the little group, and again the same peculiarity struck him—they all made way for him—even the Duke of Ashwood, although he did it with a frown on his face and an angry look in his eyes. Each one seemed to consider that he had some special right to be by the side of the beautiful Miss L'Estrange; and she, as usual when he was present, saw and heard no one else.

It was high time the world was disabused. Did she herself join in the popular belief? He could not tell. He looked at the bright face; the dark eyes met his, but he read no secret in them.

"Philippa," he said, suddenly, "the water looks very tempting—would you like a row?"

"Above everything else," she replied. And they went off in the little pleasure-boat together.

It was a miniature lake, tall trees bordering it and dipping their green branches into the water. The sun shone on the feathered spray that fell from the sculls, the white swans raised their graceful heads as the little boat passed by, and Philippa lay back languidly, watching the shadow of the trees. Suddenly an idea seemed to occur to her. She looked at Lord Arleigh.

"Norman," she said, "let the boat drift—I want to talk to you, and I cannot while you are rowing."

He rested on his sculls, and the boat drifted under the drooping branches of a willow-tree. He never forgot the picture that then presented itself—the clear deep water, the green trees, and the beautiful face looking at him.

"Norman," she said, in a clear, low voice, "I want to tell you that I overheard all that you said to the Duchess of Aytoun. I could not help it—I was so near to you."

She was taking the difficulty into her own hands! He felt most thankful.

"Did you, Philippa? I thought you were engrossed with the gallant captain."

"Did you really and in all truth mean what you said to her?" she asked.

"Certainly; you know me well enough to be quite sure that I never say what I do not mean."

"You have never yet seen the woman whom you would ask to be your wife?" she said.

There was a brief silence, and then he replied:

"No, in all truth, I have not, Philippa."

A little bird was singing on a swaying bough just above them—to the last day of her life it seemed to her that she remembered the notes. The sultry silence seemed to deepen. She broke it.

"But, Norman," she said, in a low voice, "have you not seen me?"

He tried to laugh to hide his embarrassment, but it was a failure.

"I have seen you—and I admire you. I have all the affection of a brother for you, Philippa—" and then he paused abruptly.

"But," she supplied, "you have never thought of making me your wife? Speak to me quite frankly, Norman."

"No, Philippa, I have not."

"As matters stand between us, they require explanation," she said; and he saw her lips grow pale. "It is not pleasant for me to have to mention it, but I must do it. Norman, do you quite forget what we were taught to believe when we were children—that our lives were to be passed together?"

"My dearest Philippa, pray spare yourself and me. I did not know that you even remembered that childish nonsense."

She raised her dark eyes to his face, and there was something in them before which he shrank as one who feels pain.

"One word, Norman—only one word. That past which has been so much to me—that past in which I have lived, even more than in the present or the future—am I to look upon it as what you call nonsense?"

He took her hand in his.

"My dear Philippa," he said, "I hate myself for what I have to say—it makes me detest even the sound of my own voice. Yet you are right—there is nothing for us but perfect frankness; anything else would be foolish. Neither your mother nor mine had any right to try to bind us. Such things never answer, never prosper. I cannot myself imagine how they, usually so sensible, came in this instance to disregard all dictates of common sense. I have always looked upon the arrangement as mere nonsense; and I hope you have done the same. You are free as air—and so am I."

She made no answer, but, after a few minutes, when she had regained her self-possession, she said:

"The sun is warm on the water—I think we had better return;" and, as they went back, she spoke to him carelessly about the new rage for garden-parties.

"Does she care or not?" thought Lord Arleigh to himself. "Is she pleased or not? I cannot tell; the ways of women are inscrutable. Yet a strange idea haunts me—an uncomfortable suspicion."

As he watched her, there seemed to him no trace of anything but light-hearted mirth and happiness about her. She laughed and talked; she was the center of attraction, the life of the fete. When he spoke to her, she had a careless jest, a laughing word for him; yet he could not divest himself of the idea that there was something behind all this. Was it his fancy, or did the dark eyes wear every now and then an expression of anguish? Was it his fancy, or did it really happen that when she believed herself unobserved, the light died out of her face?

He was uncomfortable, without knowing why—haunted by a vague, miserable suspicion he could not explain, by a presentiment he could not understand—compelled against his will to watch her, yet unable to detect anything in her words and manner that justified his doing so. It had been arranged that after the fete he should return to Verdun House with Lady Peters and Philippa. He had half promised to dine and spend the evening there, but now he wondered if that arrangement would be agreeable to Philippa. He felt that some degree of restraint had arisen between them.

He was thinking what excuse he could frame, when Philippa sent for him. He looked into the fresh young face; there was no cloud on it.

"Norman," she said, "I find that Lady Peters has asked Miss Byrton to join us at dinner—will you come now? It has been a charming day, but I must own that the warmth of the sun has tired me."

Her tone of voice was so calm, so unruffled, he could have laughed at himself for his suspicions, his fears.

"I am quite ready," he replied. "If you would like the carriage ordered, we will go at once."

He noticed her going home more particularly than he had ever done before. She was a trifle paler, and there was a languid expression in her dark eyes which might arise from fatigue, but she talked lightly as usual. If anything, she was even kinder to him than usual, never evincing the least consciousness of what had happened. Could it have been a dream? Never was man so puzzled as Lord Arleigh.

They talked after dinner about a grand fancy ball that Miss Byrton intended giving at her mansion in Grosvenor Square. She was one of those who believed implicitly in the engagement between Lord Arleigh and Miss L'Estrange.

"I have a Waverley quadrille already formed," said Miss Byrton—"that is de rigueur. There could not be a fancy ball without a Waverley quadrille. How I should like two Shakesperian ones! I thought of having one from 'As You Like It' and another from 'Romeo and Juliet;' and, Miss L'Estrange, I wish you would come as Juliet. It seems rude even to suggest a character to any one with such perfect taste as yours—still I should like a beautiful Juliet—Juliet in white satin, and glimmer of pearls."

"I am quite willing," returned Philippa. "Juliet is one of my favorite heroines. How many Romeos will you have?"

"Only one, if I can so manage it," replied Miss Byrton—"and that will be Lord Arleigh."

She looked at him as she spoke; he shook his head, laughingly.

"No—I yield to no one in reverence for the creations of the great poet," he said; "but, to tell the truth, I do not remember that the character of Romeo ever had any great charm for me."

"Why not?" asked Miss Byrton.

"I cannot tell you; I am very much afraid that I prefer Othello—the noble Moor. Perhaps it is because sentiment has not any great attraction for me. I do not think I could ever kill myself for love. I should make a sorry Romeo, Miss Byrton."

With a puzzled face she looked from him to Miss L'Estrange.

"You surprise me," she said, quickly. "I should have thought Romeo a character above all others to please you."

Philippa has listened with a smile—nothing had escaped her. Looking up, she said, with a bright laugh:

"I cannot compliment you on being a good judge of character, Miss Byrton. It may be perhaps that you have not known Lord Arleigh well enough. But he is the last person in the world to make a good Romeo. I know but one character in Shakespeare's plays that would suit him."

"And that?" interrogated Lord Arleigh.

"That," replied Philippa, "is Petruchio;" and amidst a general laugh the conversation ended.

Miss Byrton was the first to take her departure. Lord Arleigh lingered for some little time—he was still unconvinced. The wretched, half-formed suspicion that there was something hidden beneath Philippa's manner still pursued him; he wanted to see if she was the same to him. There was indeed no perceptible difference. She leaned back in her favorite chair with an air of relief, as though she were tired of visitors.

"Now let us talk about the fete, Norman," she said. "You are the only one I care to talk with about my neighbors."

So for half an hour they discussed the fete, the dresses, the music, the different flirtations—Philippa in her usual bright, laughing, half-sarcastic fashion, with the keen sense of humor that was peculiar to her. Lord Arleigh could not see that there was any effort in her conversation; he could not see the least shadow on her brightness; and at heart he was thankful.

When he was going away, she asked him about riding on the morrow just as usual. He could not see the slightest difference in her manner. That unpleasant little conversation on the lake might never have taken place for all the remembrance of it that seemed to trouble her. Then, when he rose to take his leave, she held out her hand with a bright, amused expression.

"Good-night, Petruchio," she said. "I am pleased at the name I have found for you."

"I am not so sure that it is appropriate," he rejoined. "I think on the whole I would rather love a Juliet than tame a shrew."

"It may be in the book of fate that you will do both," she observed; and they parted, laughing at the idea.

To the last the light shone in her eyes, and the scarlet lips were wreathed in smiles; but, when the door had closed behind him and she was alone, the haggard, terrible change that fell over the young face was painful to see. The light, the youth, the beauty seemed all to fade from it; it grew white, stricken, as though the pain of death were upon her. She clasped her hands as one who had lost all hope.

"How am I to bear it?" she cried. "What am I to do?" She looked round her with the bewildered air of one who had lost her way—with the dazed appearance of one from beneath whose feet the plank of safety had been withdrawn. It was all over—life was all over; the love that had been her life was suddenly taken from her. Hope was dead—the past in which she had lived was all a plank—he did not love her.

She said the words over and over again to herself. He did not love her, this man to whom she had given the passionate love of her whole heart and soul—he did not love her, and never intended to ask her to be his wife.

Why, she had lived for this! This love, lying now in ruins around her, had been her existence. Standing there, in the first full pain of her despair, she realized what that love had been—her life, her hope, her world. She had lived in it; she had known no other wish, no other desire. It had been her all and now it was less than nothing.

"How am I to live and bear it?" she asked herself again; and the only answer that came to her was the dull echo of her own despair.

That night, while the sweet flowers slept under the light of the stars, and the little birds rested in the deep shade of the trees—while the night wind whispered low, and the moon sailed in the sky—Philippa L'Estrange, the belle of the season, one of the most beautiful women in London, one of the wealthiest heiresses in England, wept through the long hours—wept for the overthrow of her hope and her love, wept for the life that lay in ruins around her.

She was of dauntless courage—she knew no fear; but she did tremble and quail before the future stretching out before her—the future that was to have no love, and was to be spent without him.

How was she to bear it? She had known no other hope in life, no other dream. What had been childish nonsense to him had been to her a serious and exquisite reality. He had either forgotten it, or had thought of it only with annoyance; she had made it the very corner-stone of her life.

It was not only a blow of the keenest and cruelest kind to her affections, but it was the cruelest blow her vanity could have possibly received. To think that she, who had more admirers at her feet than any other woman in London, should have tried so hard to win this one, and have failed—that her beauty, her grace, her wit, her talent, should all have been lavished in vain.

Why did she fail so completely? Why had she not won his love? It was given to no other—at least she had the consolation of knowing that. He had talked about his ideal, but he had not found it; he had his own ideal of womanhood, but he had not met with it.

"Are other women fairer, more lovable than I am?" she asked herself. "Why should another win where I have failed?"

So through the long hours of the starlit night she lamented the love and the wreck of her life, she mourned for the hope that could never live again, while her name was on the lips of men who praised her as the queen of beauty, and fair women envied her as one who had but to will and to win.

She would have given her whole fortune to win his love—not once, but a hundred times over.

It seemed to her a cruel mockery of fate that she who had everything the world could give—beauty, health, wealth, fortune—should ask but this one gift, and that it should be refused her.

She watched the stars until they faded from the skies and then she buried her face in the pillow and sobbed herself to sleep.



Chapter XII.



It was when the sun, shining into her room, reached her that an idea occurred to Philippa which was like the up-springing of new life to her. All was not yet lost. He did not love her—he had not thought of making her his wife; but it did not follow that he would never do so. What had not patience and perseverance accomplished before now? What had not love won?

He had acknowledged that she was beautiful; he had owned to her often how much he admired her. So much granted, was it impossible that he should learn to love her? She told herself that she would take courage—that she would persevere—that her great love must in time prevail, and that she would devote her life unweariedly to it.

She would carefully hide all traces of pique or annoyance. She would never let him find her dull or unhappy. Men liked to be amused. She would do her best to entertain him; he would never have a moment's vacancy in her society. She would find sparkling anecdotes, repartees, witty, humorous stories, to amuse him. He liked her singing; she would cultivate it more and more. She would study him, dress for him, live for him, and him alone; she would have no other end, aim, thought, or desire. She would herself be the source of all his amusement, so that he should look for the every-day pleasures of his life to her—and, such being the case, she would win him; she felt sure of it. Why had she been so hopeless, so despairing? There was no real cause for it. Perhaps, after all, he had looked upon the whole affair, not as a solemn engagement, but as a childish farce. Perhaps he had never really thought of her as his wife; but there would be an end to that thoughtlessness now. What had passed on the previous day would arouse his attention, he could never know the same indifference again.

So she rose with renewed hope. She shrank from the look of her face in the glass. "Cold water and fresh air," she said to herself, with a smile, "will soon remedy such paleness." And thus on that very day began for her the new life—the life in which, no longer sure of her love, she was to try to win it.

He would have loved her had he been able; but his own words were true—"Love is fate."

There was nothing in common between them—no sympathy—none of those mystical cords that, once touched, set two human hearts throbbing, and never rest until they are one. He could not have been fonder of her than he was, in a brotherly sense; but as for lover's love, from the first day he had seen her, a beautiful, dark-eyed child, until the last he had never felt the least semblance of it.

It was a story of failure. She strove as perhaps woman never before had striven, and she succeeded in winning his truest admiration, his warmest friendship; he felt more at home with her than any one else in the wide world. But there it ended—she won no more.

It was not his fault; it was simply because the electric spark called love had never been and never could be elicited between his soul and hers. He would have done anything for her—he was her truest, best friend; but he was not her lover.

She hoped against hope. Each day she counted the kind words he had said to her; she noted every glance, every look, every expression. But she could not find that she made any progress—nothing that indicated any change from brotherly friendship to love. Still she hoped against hope, the chances are that she would have died of a broken heart.

Then the season ended. She went back to Verdun Royal with Lady Peters, and Lord Arleigh to Beechgrove. They wrote to each other at Christmas, and met at Calverley, the seat of Lord Rineham. She contrived, even when away from him, to fill his life. She was always consulting him on matters of interest to her; she sought his advice continually, and about everything, from the renewal of a lease to the making of a new acquaintance. "I cannot do wrong," she would say to him, "if I follow your advice." He was pleased and happy to be able to help the daughter of his mother's dearest friend.

Her manner completely deceived him. If she had evinced the least pique or discontent—if she had by word or look shown the least resentment—he would have suspected that she cared for him, and would have been on his guard. As it was, he would not have believed any one who had told him she loved him.

The explanation had been made; there was no longer even a shadow between them; they both understood that the weak, nonsensical tie was broken. That they were the dearest of friends, and quite happy, would have been Lord Arleigh's notion of matters. Philippa L'Estrange might have told a different story.

The proposed party at Beechgrove did not come off. There were some repairs needed in the eastern wing, and Lord Arleigh himself had so many engagements, that no time could be found for it; but when the season came round Philippa and he met again.

By this time some of Miss L'Estrange's admirers had come to the conclusion that there was no truth in the report of the engagement between herself and Lord Arleigh. Among these was his grace the Duke of Hazlewood. He loved the beautiful, queenly girl who had so disdainfully refused his coronet—the very refusal had made him care more than ever for her. He was worldly-wise enough to know that there were few women in London who would have refused him; and he said to himself that, if she would not marry him, he would go unmarried to the grave. He was one of the first to feel sure that there was no truth in the rumors that had grieved him so the previous year. Miss L'Estrange and Lord Arleigh were by force of circumstances great friends—nothing more, and this season he determined to make a friend of the man he had detested as a rival.

When the Duke of Hazlewood made up his mind, he generally accomplished his desire; he sought Lord Arleigh with such assiduity, he made himself so pleasant and agreeable to him, that the master of Beechgrove soon showed him his most cordial and sincere liking. Then they became warm friends. The duke confided in Lord Arleigh—he told him the whole story of his love for Miss L'Estrange.

"I know," he said, "that no one has so much influence over her as you. I do not believe in the absurd stores told about an engagement between you, but I see plainly that she is your friend, and that you are hers; and I want you to use your influence with her in my favor."

Lord Arleigh promised to do so—and he intended to keep his promise; they were on such intimate and friendly terms that he could venture upon saying anything of that kind to her. She would not be displeased—on the contrary, she would like his advice; it might even be that before now she had wished to ask for it, but had not liked to do so—so completely did these two play at cross-purposes and misunderstand each other.

It was easier to say to himself that he would speak to her as the duke wished than to do it. He saw that any allusion to her lovers or admirers made her ill at ease—she did not like it; even his laughing comments on the homage paid to her did not please her.

"I do not like lovers," she said to him one day, "and I am tired of admirers—I prefer friends."

"But," he opposed, laughingly, "if all that wise men and philosophers[2] tell us is correct, there are no true friends."

He never forgot the light that shone in her face as she raised it to his.

"I do not believe that," she returned; "there are true friends—you are one to me."

The tenderness of her manner struck him forcibly. Something kinder and softer stirred in his heart than had ever stirred before for her; he raised her hand to his lips and kissed it.

"You are right, Philippa" he said. "If ever a woman had a true, stanch friend, I am and will be one to you."

From her heart to her lips rose the words: "Shall you never be more?" Perhaps even her eyes asked the question more eloquently than her lips could have done, for his face flushed, and she turned away with some slight embarrassment.

"I shall try and keep your friendship," she said; "but that will be easily done, Norman."

"Yes," he replied; "one of the traditions of our house is 'truth in friendship, trust in love, honor in war.' To be a true friend and a noble foe is characteristic of the Arleighs."

"I hope that you will never be a foe of mine," she rejoined, laughingly. And that evening, thinking over the events of the day she flattered herself that she had made some little progress after all.



Chapter XIII.



The opportunity that Lord Arleigh looked for came at last. Philippa had some reason to doubt the honesty of a man whom she had been employing as agent. She was kind of heart, and did not wish to punish him, yet she felt sure that he had not done his duty by her. To speak to her solicitors about it would be, she felt, injurious to him, whether innocent or guilty. If innocent, it would create a prejudice against him; if guilty, they would wish to punish him. She resolved upon laying the matter before Lord Arleigh, and seeing what he thought of it.

He listened very patiently, examined the affair, and then told her that he believed she had been robbed.

"What shall I do?" she asked, looking at him earnestly.

"I know what you ought to do, Philippa. You ought to punish him."

"But he has a wife, Norman, and innocent little children; in exposing him I shall punish them, and they are innocent."

"That is one of the strangest of universal laws to me," said Lord Arleigh—"why the innocent always do, and always must, suffer for the guilty; it is one of the mysteries I shall never understand. Common sense tells me that you ought to expose this man—that he ought to be punished for what he has done. Yet, if you do, his wife and children will be dragged down into an abyss of misery. Suppose you make a compromise of matters and lecture him well."

He was half smiling as he spoke, but she took every word in serious earnest.

"Philippa," he continued, "why do you not marry? A husband would save you all this trouble; he would attend to your affairs, and shield you from annoyances of this kind."

"The answer to your question, 'Why do I not marry?' Would form a long story," she replied, and then she turned the conversation.

But he was determined to keep his word, and pleaded with her for the duke. Another opportunity came that evening. It was Lady Peters' birthday, and Philippa had invited some of her most intimate friends; not young people, but those with whom she thought her chaperon would enjoy herself best. The result was a very pleasant dinner-party, followed by a very pleasant evening. Lord Arleigh could not be absent, for it was, in some measure, a family fete.

The guests did not remain very late, and Lady Peters, professing herself tired with the exertions she had made, lay down on a couch, and was soon asleep. Philippa stood by the window with the rose-silk hangings drawn.

"Come out on the balcony," she said to Lord Arleigh, "the room is very warm."

It was night, but the darkness was silver-gray, not black. The sky above was brilliant with the gleam of a thousand stars, the moon was shining behind some silvery clouds, the great masses of foliage in the park were just stirred with the whisper of the night, and sweetest odors came from heliotrope and mignonnette; the brooding silence of the summer night lay over the land.

Philippa sat down, and Lord Arleigh stood by her side.

The moonlight falling on her beautiful face softened it into wondrous loveliness—it was pale, refined, with depths of passion in the dark eyes, and tender, tremulous smiles on the scarlet lips. She wore some material of white and gold. A thin scarf was thrown carelessly over her white shoulders. When the wind stirred it blew the scarf against her face.

She might have been the very goddess of love, she looked so fair out in the starlight. If there had been one particle of love in Lord Arleigh's heart, that hour and scene must have called it into life. For a time they sat in perfect silence. Her head was thrown back against a pillar round which red roses clustered and clung, and the light of the stars fell full upon her face; the dark eyes were full of radiance.