Two weeks later, as June's golden days were drawing to a close, five of Lady Helena's guests departed from Powyss Place. One remained behind. The Stuart family, with the devoted Captain Hammond in Trixy's train, went up to London; Miss Edith Darrell stayed behind.

Since the memorable day following the ball, the bride-elect of Sir Victor Catheron had dwelt in a sort of earthly purgatory, had lived stretched on a sort of daily rack. "How blessings brighten as they take their flight." She had given up Charley—had cast him off, had bartered herself in cold blood—for a title and an income. And now that he held her at her true value, that his love had died a natural death in contempt and scorn, her whole heart, her whole soul craved him with a sick longing that was like death. It was her daily torture and penance to see him, to speak to him, and note the cold scorn of his gray, tranquil eyes. Jealousy had been added to her other torments; he was ever by Lady Gwendoline's side of late—ever at Drexel Court. His father had set his heart upon the match; she was graceful and high-bred; it would end in a marriage, no doubt. There were times when she woke from her jealous anger to rage at herself.

"What a dog in the manger I grow," she said, with a bitter laugh. "I won't have him myself, and I cannot bear that any one else should have him. If he would only go away—if he only would—I cannot endure this much longer."

Truly she could not. She was losing flesh and color, waxing wan as a shadow. Sir Victor was full of concern, full of wonder and alarm. Lady Helena said little, but (being a woman) her sharp old eyes saw all.

"The sooner my guests go, the better," she thought; "the sooner she sees the last of this young man, the sooner health and strength will return."

Perhaps Charley saw too—the gray, tranquil eyes were very penetrating.
It was he, at all events, who urged the exodus to London.

"Let us see a little London life in the season, governor," he said. "Lady Portia Hampton, and that lot, are going. They'll introduce us to some nice people—so will Hammond. Rustic lanes and hawthorn ledges are all very pretty, but there's a possibility of their palling on depraved New York minds. I pine for stone and mortar, and the fog and smoke of London."

Whatever he may have felt, he bore it easily to all outward seeming, as the men who feel deepest mostly do. He could not be said to actually avoid her, but certainly since that afternoon in the drawing-room, they had never been for five seconds alone.

Mr. Stuart, senior, had agreed, with almost feverish eagerness, to the proposed change. Life had been very pleasant in Cheshire, with picnics, water-parties down the Dee, drives to show-places, lawn billiards, and croquet, but a month of it was enough. Sir Victor was immersed in his building projects and his lady-love; Lady Helena, ever since the coming and going of the lady in black, had not been the same. Powyss place was a pleasant house, but enough was enough. They were ready to say good-by and be off to "fresh fields and pastures new."

"And, my dear child," said Lady Helena to Edith, when the departure was fixed, "I think you had much better remain behind."

There was an emphasis in her tone, a meaning glance in her eye, that brought the conscious blood to the girl's cheek. Her eyes fell—her lips quivered for an instant—she made no reply.

"Certainly Edith will remain," Sir Victor interposed impetuously. "As if we could survive down here without her! And, of course, just at present it is impossible for me to leave. They don't need her half as much as we do—Miss Stuart has Hammond, Prince Charley has Gwendoline Drexel; Edith would only be in the way!"

"It is settled, then?" said Lady Helena again, watching Edith with a curiously intent look. "You remain?"

"I will remain," Edith answered, very lowly and without lifting her eyes.

"My own idea is," went on the young baronet confidentially, to his lady love, "that they are glad to be gone. Something seems to be the matter with Stuart pere—under a cloud, rather, just at present. Has it struck you, Dithy?"

He had caught the way of calling her by the pet name Trix and Charley used. She lifted her eyes abstractedly now, as he asked the question.

"Mr. Stuart? What did you say, Sir Victor? Oh—under a cloud. Well, yes, I have noticed it. I think it is something connected with his business in New York. In papa's last letter he alluded to it."

"In papa's last letter," Mr. Frederick Darrell had said this:

"One of their great financial crises, they tell me, is approaching in New York, involving many failures and immense loss. One of the most deeply involved, it is whispered, will be James Stuart. I have heard he is threatened with ruin. Let us hope, however, this may be exaggerated. Once I fancied it would be a fine thing, a brilliant match, if my Edith married James Stuart's son. How much better Providence has arranged it! Once more, my dearest daughter, I congratulate you on the brilliant vista opening before you. Your step-mother, who desires her best love, never wearies of spreading the wonderful news that our little Edie is so soon to be the bride of a great English baronet."

Miss Darrell's straight black brows met in one frowning line as she perused this parental and pious epistle. The next instant it was torn into minute atoms, and scattered to the four winds of heaven.

There seemed to be some foundation for the news. Letters without end kept coming for Mr. Stuart; little boys bearing the ominous orange envelopes of the telegraph company, came almost daily to Powyss Place. After these letters and cable messages the gloom on Mr. Stuart's face deepened and darkened. He lost sleep, he lost appetite; some great and secret fear seemed preying upon him. What was it? His family noticed it, and inquired about his health. He rebuffed them impatiently; he was quite well—he wanted to be let alone—why the unmentionable-to-ears-polite need they badger him with questions? They held their peace and let him alone. That it in any way concerned commercial failure they never dreamed; to them the wealth of the husband and father was something illimitable—a golden river flowing from a golden ocean. That ruin could approach them never entered their wildest dreams.

He had gone to Edith one day and offered her a thousand-dollar check.

"For your trousseau, my dear," he had said. "It isn't what I expected to give you—what I would give you, if—" He gulped and paused. "Things have changed with me lately. You will accept this, Edie—it will at least buy your wedding-dress."

She had shrunk back, and refused—not proudly, or angrily—very humbly, but very firmly. From Charley's father she could never take a farthing now.

"No" she said, "I can't take it. Dear Mr. Stuart, I thank you all the same; you have given me more already than I deserve or can ever repay. I cannot take this. Sir Victor Catheron takes me as I am—poor, penniless. Lady Helena will give me a white silk dress and veil to be married in. For the rest, after my wedding-day, whatever my life may lack, it will not lack dresses."

He had replaced the check in his pocket-book, inwardly thankful, perhaps, that it had not been accepted. The day was past when a thousand dollars would have been but as a drop in the ocean to him.

The time of departure was fixed at length; and the moment it was fixed, Trix flew upstairs, and into Edith's room, with the news.

"Oh, let us be joyful," sang Miss Stuart, waltzing in psalm time up and down the room; "we're off at last, the day after to-morrow, Dithy; so go pack up at once. It's been very jolly, and all that, down here, for the past four weeks, and you've had a good time, I know; but I, for one, will be glad to hear the bustle and din of city life once more. One grows tired doing the pastoral and tooral-ooral—I mean truly rural—and craves for shops, and gaslight, and glitter, and crowds of human beings once more. Our rooms are taken at Langham's, Edie, and that blessed darling, Captain Hammond, goes with us. Lady Portia, Lady Gwendoline, and Lady Laura are coming also, and I mean to plunge headlong into the giddy whirl of dissipation, and mingle with the bloated aristocracy. Why don't you laugh? What are you looking so sulky about?"

"Am I looking sulky?" Edith said, with a faint smile. "I don't feel sulky. I sincerely hope you may enjoy yourself even more than you anticipate."

"Oh—you do!" said Trix, opening her eyes; "and how about yourself—don't you expect to enjoy yourself at all?"

"I would, no doubt, only—I am not going."

"Not going!" Thunderstruck, Trix repeats the words.

"No; it has been decided that I remain here. You won't miss me,
Trix—you will have Captain Hammond."

"Captain Hammond may go hang himself. I want you, and you I mean to have. Let's sit down and reason this thing out. Now what new crotchet has got into your head? May I ask what your ladyship-elect means to do?"

"To remain quietly here until—until—you know."

"Oh, I know!" with indescribable scorn; "until you are raised to the sublime dignity of a baronet's wife. And you mean to mope away your existence down here for the next two months listening to love-making you don't care that about. Oh, no need to fire up; I know how much you care about it. And I say you shan't. Why, you are fading away to a shadow now under it. You shall come up to London with us and recuperate. Charley shall take you everywhere."

She saw her wince—yes, that was where the vital place lay. Miss
Stuart ran on:

"The idea of living under the same roof for two mortal months with the young man you are going to marry! You're a great stickler for etiquette—I hope you don't call that etiquette? Nobody ever heard of such a thing. I'm not sure but that it would be immoral. Of course, there's Lady Helena to play propriety, and there's the improvements at Catheron Royals to amuse you, and there's Sir Victor's endless 'lovering' to edify you, but still I say you shall come. You started with us, and you shall stay with us—you belong to us, not to him, until the nuptial knot is tied. I wouldn't give a fig for London without you. I should die of the dismals in a week."

"What, Trix—with Captain Hammond?"

"Bother Captain Hammond! I want you. O Edie, do come!"

"I can't, Trix." She turned away with an impatient sigh. "I have promised. Sir Victor wishes it, Lady Helena wishes it. It is impossible."

"And Edith Darrell wishes it. Oh, say it out, Edith," Trix retorted bitterly. "Your faults are many, but fear of the truth used not to be among them. You have promised. Is it that they are afraid to trust you out of their sight?"

"Let me alone, Trix. I am tired and sick—I can't bear it."

She laid her face down upon her arm—tired, as she said—sick, soul and body. Every fibre of her heart was longing to go with them—to be with him while she might, treason or no to Sir Victor; but it could not be.

Trix stood and looked at her, pale with anger.

"I will let you alone, Miss Darrell. More—I will let you alone for the remainder of your life. All the past has been bad enough. Your deceit to me, your heartlessness to Charley—this is the last drop in the cup. You throw us over when we have served your turn for newer, grander friends—it is only the way of the world, and what one might expect from Miss Edith Darrell. But I didn't expect it—I didn't think ingratitude was one among your failings. I was a fool!" cried Trix, with a burst. "I always was a fool and always will be. But I'll be fooled by you no longer. Stay here, Miss Darrell, and when we say good-by day after to-morrow, it shall be good-by forever."

And then Miss Stuart, very red in the face, very flashing in the eyes, bounced out of the room, and Edith was left alone.

Only another friend lost forever. Well, she had Sir Victor Catheron left—he must suffice for all now.

All that day and most of the next she kept her room. It was no falsehood to say she was ill—she was. She lay upon her bed, her dark eyes open, her hands clasped over her head, looking blankly before her. To-morrow they must part, and after to-morrow—but her mind gave it up; she could not look beyond.

She came downstairs when to-morrow came to say farewell. The white wrapper she wore was not whiter than her face. Mr. Stuart shook hands in a nervous, hurried sort of way that had grown habitual to him of late. Mrs. Stuart kissed her fondly, Miss Stuart just touched her lips formally to her cheek, and Mr. Charles Stuart held her cold fingers for two seconds in his warm clasp, looked, with his own easy, pleasant smile, straight into her eyes, and said good-by precisely as he said it to Lady Helena. Then it was all over; they were gone; the wheels that bore them away crashed over the gravel: Edith Darrell felt as though they were crashing over her heart.

That night the Stuarts were established in elegant apartments at
Langham's Hotel.

But alas for the frailty of human hopes! "The splendid time" Trixy so confidently looked forward to never came. The very morning after their arrival came one of the boys in uniform with another sinister orange envelope for the head of the family. The head of the family chanced to be alone in his dressing-room. He took it with trembling hand and bloodshot eyes, and tore it open. A moment after there was a horrible cry like nothing human, then a heavy fall. Mrs. Stuart rushed in with a scream, and found her husband lying on the floor, the message in his hand, in a fit.

* * * * *

Captain Hammond had made an appointment with Charley to dine at St. James Street that evening. Calling upon old friends kept the gallant captain of Scotch Grays occupied all day; and as the shades of evening began to gather over the West End, he stood impatiently awaiting his arrival. Mr. Stuart was ten minutes late, and if there was one thing in this mortal life that upset the young warrior's equanimity, it was being kept ten minutes waiting for his dinner. Five minutes more! Confound the fellow—would he never come? As the impatient adjuration passed the captain's lips, Charley came in. He was rather pale. Except for that, there was no change in him. Death itself could hardly have wrought much change in Charley. He had not come to apologize; he had not come to dine. He had come to tell the captain some very bad news. There had been terrible commercial disasters of late in New York; they had involved his father. His father had embarked almost every dollar of his fortune in some bubble speculations that had gone up like a rocket and come down like a stick. He had been losing immensely for the past month. This morning he had received a cable message, telling him the crash had come. He was irretrievably, past all hope of redemption, ruined.

All this Charley told in his quietest voice, looking out through the great bay window at the bustle and whirl of fashionable London life, at the hour of seven in the evening. Captain Hammond, smoking a cigar, listened in gloomy silence, feeling particularly uncomfortable, and not knowing in the least what to say. He took out his cheroot and spoke at last.

"It's a deuced bad state of affairs, Charley. Have you thought of anything?"

"I've thought of suicide," Charley answered, "and made all the preliminary arrangements. I took out my razor-case, examined the edges, found the sharpest, and—put it carefully away again. I loaded all the chambers of my revolver, and locked it up. I sauntered by the classic banks of the Serpentine, sleeping tranquilly in the rays of the sunset (that sounds like poetry, but I don't mean poetry). Of the three I think I prefer it, and if the worst comes to the worst, it's there still, and it's pleasant and cool."

"How do your mother and sister take it?" Captain Hammond gloomily asked.

"My mother is one of those happy-go-lucky, apathetic sort of people who never break their hearts over anything. She said 'O dear me!' several times, I believe, and cried a little. Trix hasn't time to 'take it' at all. She is absorbed all day in attending her father. The fit turns out not to be dangerous at present, but he lies in a sort of stupor, a lethargy from which nothing can rouse him. Of course our first step will be to return to New York immediately. Beggars—and I take it that's about what we are at present—have no business at Langham's."

Captain Hammond opened his bearded lips as though to speak, thought better of it, replaced his cigar again between them in moody silence, and stared hard at nothing out of the window.

"I called this afternoon upon the London agent of the Cunard ships," resumed Charley, "and found that one sails in four days. Providentially two cabins remained untaken; I secured them at once. In four days, then, we sail. Meantime, old fellow, if you'll drop in and speak a word to mother and Trix, you will be doing a friendly deed. Poor souls! they are awfully cut up."

Captain Hammond started to his feet. He seized Charley's hand in a grip of iron. "Old boy!" he began—he never got further. The torrent of eloquence dried up suddenly, and a shake of the hand that made Charley wince finished the sentence.

"I shall be fully occupied in the meantime," Charley said, taking his hat and turning to go, "and they'll be a great deal alone. If I can find time I'll run down to Cheshire, and tell my cousin. As we may not meet again, I should like to say 'good-by.'" He departed.

There was no sleep that night in the Stuart apartments. Mr. Stuart was pronounced out of danger and able to travel, but he still lay in that lethargic trance—not speaking at all, and seemingly not suffering. Next day Charley started for Cheshire.

"She doesn't deserve it," his sister said bitterly; "I wouldn't go if I were you. She has her lover—her fortune. What are we or our misfortunes to her? She has neither heart, nor gratitude, nor affection. She isn't worth a thought, and never was—there!"

"I wouldn't be too hard upon her, Trix, if I were you," her brother answered coolly. "You would have taken Sir Victor yourself, you know, if you could have got him. I will go."

He went. The long, bright summer day passed; at six he was in Chester. There was some delay in procuring a conveyance to Powyss Place, and the drive was a lengthy one. Twilight had entirely fallen, and lamps glimmered in the windows of the old stone mansion as he alighted.

The servant stared, as he ushered him in, at his pale face and dusty garments.

"You will tell Miss Darrell I wish to see her at once, and alone," he said, slipping a shilling into the man's hand.

He took a seat in the familiar reception-room, and waited. Would she keep him long, he wondered—would she come to him—would she come at all? Yes, he knew she would, let him send for her, married or single, when and how he might, he knew she would come.

She entered as the thought crossed his mind, hastily, with a soft silken rustle, a waft of perfume. He rose up and looked at her; so for the space of five seconds they stood silently, face to face.

To the last hour of his life Charley Stuart remembered her, as he saw her then, and always with a sharp pang of the same pain.

She was dressed for a dinner party. She wore violet silk, trailing far behind her, violet shot with red. Her graceful shoulders rose up exquisitely out of the point lace trimmings, her arms sparkled in the lights. A necklace of amethysts set in clusters, with diamonds between, shone upon her neck; amethysts and diamonds were in her ears, and clasping the arms above the elbows. Her waving, dark hair was drawn back off her face, and crowned with an ivy wreath. The soft, abundant waxlights showered down upon her. So she stood, resplendent as a queen, radiant as a goddess. There was a look on Charley Stuart's face, a light in his gray eyes, very rare to see. He only bowed and stood aloof.

"I have surprised you, I am sure—interrupted you, I greatly fear. You will pardon both I know, when I tell you what has brought me here."

In very few words he told her—the great tragedies of life are always easily told. They were ruined—he had engaged their passage by the next steamer—he had merely run down as they were never likely to meet again—for the sake of old times, to say good-by.

Old times! Something rose in the girl's throat, and seemed to choke her. Oh, of all the base, heartless, mercenary, ungrateful wretches on earth, was there another so heartless, so ungrateful as she! Poor—Charley poor! For one moment—one—the impulse came upon her to give up all—to go with him to beggary if need be. Only for one moment—I will do Miss Darrell's excellent worldly wisdom this justice—only one.

"I see you are dressed for a party—I will not detain you a second longer. I could not depart comfortably, considering that you came over in our care, without informing you why we leave so abruptly. You are safe. Your destiny is happily settled. I can give to your father a good account of my stewardship. You have my sincerest wishes for your health and happiness, and I am sure you will never quite forget us. Good-by, Miss Darrell." He held out his hand. "My congratulations are premature, but let me offer them now to the future Lady Catheron."

"Miss Darrell!" When, in all the years that were gone, had he ever called her that before? She arose and gave him her hand—proud, pale.

"I thank you," she said coldly. "I will send Lady Helena and Sir
Victor to you at once. They will wish to see you, of course. Good-by,
Mr. Stuart Let us hope things may turn out better than you think. Give
my dearest love to Trix, if she will accept it. Once more, good-by."

She swept to the door in her brilliant dress, her perfumed laces, her shining jewels—the glittering fripperies for which her womanhood was to be sold. He stood quite still in the centre of the room, as she had left him, watching her. So beautiful, so cold-blooded, he was thinking; were all her kind like this? And poets sing and novelists rave of woman's love! A half smile came over his lips as he thought of it. It was very pretty to read of in books; in real life it was—like this!

She laid her hand on the silver handle of the door—then she paused—looked back, all the womanliness, all the passion of her life stirred to its depths. It was good-by forever to Charley. There was a great sob, and pride bowed and fell. She rushed back—two impetuous arms went round his neck; she drew his face down, and kissed him passionately—once—twice.

"Good-by, Charley—my darling—forever and ever!"

She threw him from her almost violently, and rushed out of the room. Whether she went to tell Lady Helena and Sir Victor of his presence he neither knew nor cared. He was in little mood to meet either of them just then.

Five minutes later, and, under the blue silvery summer night, he was whirling away back to Chester. When the midnight stars shone in the sky he was half way up to London, with Edith's farewell words in his ears, Edith's first, last kiss on his lips.