"Ida!"

It was the lover's cry of appeal, the prayer for love uttered by the heart that loves; and it went straight to her own heart.

She put out her hand, and he took it and held it in both his.

"I have come for your answer," he said in the low voice that thrills; the voice which says so much more than the mere words. "I could not wait—I tried to keep away from you until to-morrow; but it was of no use. I am here, you see, and I want your answer. Don't tell me it is 'No!' Trust me, Ida—trust to my love for you. I will devote my life to trying to make you happy. Ah, but you know! What is your answer? Have you thought—you promised me you would think?"

"I have thought," she said, at last. "I have thought of nothing else—I wanted to tell you the truth—to tell you truly as I would to myself—but it is so hard to know—Sometimes when I think that you may go away, and that I may not see you again, my heart sinks, and I feel, oh! so wretched."

He waited for no more, but caught her to him, and as she lay in his arms only slightly struggling, her face upturned, he bent his own, almost white with passion, and kissed her on the lips, and not once only.

The blood rushed to her face, her bosom rose and fell, and, her face grown pale again, her eyes gazed up into his half fiercely, half appealingly; then suddenly they grew moist, as if with tears, her lips quivered, and from them came, as if involuntarily, the words of surrender, the maiden confession:

"I love you!"

He uttered a low, sharp cry, the expression of his heart's delight, his soul's triumph.

"You love me! Ida! How—how do you know—when?" She shook her head and sighed, as she pressed her cheek against his breast.

"I don't know. It was just now—the moment when you kissed me. Then it came to me suddenly—the knowledge—the truth. It was as if a flash of light had revealed it to me. Oh, yes, I love you. I wish—almost I wish that I did not, for—it hurts me!"

She pressed her hand to her heart, and gazed up at him with the wonder of a child who is meeting its first experience of the strange commingling of pain and joy.

He raised her in his arms until her face was against his.

"I know—dearest," he said, almost in a whisper. "It is love—it is always so, I think. My heart is aching with longing for you, and yet I am happy—my God, how happy! And you? Tell me, Ida?"

"Yes, I am happy," she breathed, with a deep sigh, as she nestled still closer to him. "It is all so strange—so unreal!"

"Not unreal, dearest," he said, as they walked under the trees, her head against his shoulder, his arm round her waist and supporting her. "It is real enough, this love of mine—which will last me till my death, I know; and yours?"

She gazed straight before her dreamily.

"There can be no heaven without you, without your love," she answered, with a solemn note in her sweet voice.

He pressed her to him.

"And you have thought it all out. You have realised that you will be my wife—my very own?"

"Yes," she said. "I know now. I know that I am giving you myself, that
I am placing all my life in your hands."

"God help me to guard it and make it happy!" he said; then he laughed. "I have no fear! I will make you happy, Ida! I—I feel that I shall. Do you understand what I mean? I feel as if I had been set apart, chosen from all the millions of men, to love you and cherish you and make you happy! And you, Ida?"

She looked up at him with the same far-away, dreamy expression in her wonderful eyes.

"Now at this moment I felt that I, too, have been set apart for you: is it because you have just said the same? No, because I felt it when you kissed me just now. Ah, I am glad you did it! If you had not I might not have known that I loved you, I might have let you go forever, thinking that I did not care. It was your kiss that opened my heart to me and showed me—."

He bent over her until his lips nearly touched hers. "Kiss me in return—of your own accord, Ida! But once, if you will; but kiss me!"

Without a blush, solemnly as if it were a sacrament, she raised her head and kissed him on the lips.

There fell a silence. The world around them, in the soft shimmer of the crescent moon, became an enchanted region, the land that never was on earth or sea, the land of love, in which all that dwell therein move in the glamour of the sacred Fire of Love.

Stafford broke it at last. It is the man who cannot be contented with silence; he thirsts for his mistress's voice.

"Dearest, what shall I do? You must tell me," he said, as if he had been thinking. "I will do whatever you wish, whatever you think best. I've a strong suspicion that you're the cleverest of us; that you've got more brains in this sweet little finger of yours than I've got in my clumsy head—"

She laughed softly and looked at the head which he had libelled, the shapely head with its close-cut hair, which, sliding her hand up, she touched caressingly.

"Shall I come to your father to-morrow, Ida? I will ride over after breakfast—before, if you like: if I had my way I'd patrol up and down here all night until it was a decent time to call upon him."

She nestled a little closer to him, and her brows came level with sudden gravity and doubt.

"My father! I had not thought of him—of what he would say—do. But I know! He—he will be very angry," she said, in a low voice.

"Will he? Why?" Stafford asked. "Of course I know I'm not worthy of you, Ida; no living man is!"

"Not worthy!"

She smiled at him with the woman's worship already dawning in her deep grey eyes.

"It is I who am not worthy. Why, think! I am only an inexperienced girl—living the life of a farmer's daughter. We are very poor—oh, you do not know how poor! We are almost as poor as the smallest tenant, though we live in this big house, and are still regarded as great people—the Herons of Herondale."

"That's one of the things I have been thinking of," said Stafford. "What lovely hair you have, Ida! It is not often that dark hair is so soft, is it?"

He bent down and drew a look, which his caresses had released, across her lips, and kissed her through it.

"You are lords of the soil, people of importance and rank here, while we are—well, just ordinary folk. I can quite understand your father objecting. Dearest, you are worthy of a duke, a prince—"

She put her hand up to his lips to silence the lover's extravagant flattery.

"It is not that—the difference—which is all to your advantage," she said. "My father may think of it," she went on with innocent candour. "But it would be the same if you were of the highest rank. He does not want me to leave him."

"And if he were less anxious to keep you he would not give you to me, who am, in his opinion, and rightly, so much your inferior," said Stafford. "But I ought to go to him, dearest. I ought to go to-morrow."

She trembled a little as she nestled against him. "And—and—your father, Sir Stephen Orme?" she said. "What will he say?"

Stafford laughed slowly and confidently.

"Oh, my father? He will be delighted. He's the best of fathers, a perfect model for parents. Ever since I can remember he has been good to me, a precious sight better, more liberal and generous, than I deserved; but lately, since I've known him—Ah, well, I can only say, dearest, that he will be delighted to hear that I have chosen a wife; and when he sees you—"

He stopped and held her at arm's length for a moment and looked down into the lovely face upturned to his with its sweet, girlish gravity.

—"Why, he will fall in love with you right out of hand! I think you will like my father, Ida. He—well, he's a taking sort of fellow; everybody likes him who knows him—really knows him—and speaks well of him. Yes, I'm proud of him, and I feel as safe as if he were here to say, in his hearty, earnest way: 'I wish you good luck, Stafford! And may God bless you, my dear!'"

He flushed and laughed as if a little ashamed of his emotional way of putting it.

"He's full of—of the milk of human kindness, is my father," he said, with a touch of simplicity which was one of the thousand and fifteen reasons why Ida loved him.

She gazed up at him thoughtfully and sighed.

"I hope he will like me," she said, all the pride which usually characterized her melted by her love. "I am sure that I shall like him—for loving you."

"You will see," said Stafford, confidently. "He will be as proud as a duke about you. You won't mind if he shows it a little plainly and makes a little fuss, Ida? He's—well, he's used to making the most of a good thing when he has it—it's the life he has led which has rather got him into the way of blowing a trumpet, you know—and he'll want a whole orchestra to announce you. But about your father, dearest? Shall I come to-morrow and ask for his consent?"

She looked up at him with doubt and a faint trouble in her beautiful eyes, and he heard her sigh regretfully.

"I am afraid," she said, in a low voice.

"Afraid?" He looked at her with a smile of surprise. "If anyone were to tell me that it was possible for you to be afraid, I shouldn't believe them," he said. "Fear and you haven't made acquaintance yet, Ida!"

She shook her head.

"I am so happy, so intensely happy, that I am afraid lest the gods should be jealous and snatch my happiness from me. I am afraid that if you come to-morrow, my father will say 'No,' will—"

—"Will have me shown out," said Stafford, gravely. "I see. I shouldn't be surprised."

"And—and then I should not be able to see you again."

He laughed at the idea.

"My dearest, if all the fathers in the world said 'No,' it wouldn't make any difference to me," he said, with that air of masterfulness, that flash of the eye which a woman loves in a man. "Do you think I should give you up, that I should be content to say, 'I'm very sorry, sir,' and go off—leave you—keep away from you!" He laughed again, and she nestled a little closer, and her small hand closed a little more tightly on his arm. "And you wouldn't give me up, refuse to see me, even if your father withheld his consent, would you, Ida?" he asked.

She looked straight before her dreamily. Then raised her eyes to his gravely.

"No; I could not. It is just that. I could not. Somehow I feel as if I had given you the right to myself and that nothing could alter it, nothing could take me away from you!"

How was it possible for him to refrain from lifting her in his arms and kissing the sweet, soft lips which made such a confession.

They walked on for a minute or two in silence, when she went on, as if she had been still considering the matter:

"No, you must not come, Stafford. My father is not strong, and—and—ah! well, you know, you saw him that other night—the first night we met—do you remember? And he was walking in his sleep again the other evening. If you were to come—if I were to tell him that—that you had asked me to be your wife, he might fly into a passion; it might do him harm. Some time ago, when he was ill, the doctor told me that he must be kept quite quiet, and that nothing must be allowed to excite or irritate him. He is very old and leads so secluded a life—he sees no one now but myself. Oh, how I would like you to come; how good it would be if—if he would give me to you as other fathers give their daughters! But I dare not risk it! I cannot! Stafford"—she put her hands on his breast and looked up at him—"am I wrong to tell you all this—to let you see how much I love you? Is it—unmaidenly of me? Tell me if it is, and I will not do so for the future. I will hide my heart a little better than I am doing at present. Ah, see, it is on my sleeve!"

He took her arm and kissed the sleeve where her heart was supposed to be.

"I've read that men only love while they are not sure of a woman's love; that with every two persons it is one who loves and the other who permits himself or herself to be loved. Is that true, Stafford? If so, then it is I who love—alas! poor me!"

He drew her to him and looked into her eyes with a passionate intensity.

"It's not true," he said, almost fiercely. "For God's sake don't say such things. They—they hurt, and hurt badly; they leave a bitter taste in the mouth, a nasty pang behind. And if it were true—but it isn't, Ida!—it is I who love. Good Lord! don't you know how beautiful you are? Haven't you a looking-glass in your room? don't you know that no girl that ever was born had such wonderful eyes, such beautiful hair? Oh, my heart's love, don't you know how perfect you are?"

They had stopped under some trees near the ruined chapel, and she leant against one of them and looked up at him with a strange, dreamy, far-away look in her eyes which were dark as the purple amethyst.

"I never thought about it. Am I—do you think I am pretty? I am glad; yes I am glad!"

"Pretty!" he laughed. "Dearest, when I take you away from here, into the world, as my wife—my wife—the thought sends my blood coursing through my veins—you will create so great a sensation that I shall be half wild with pride; I shall want to go about calling aloud: 'She is my wife; my very own! You may admire—worship her, but she is mine—belongs to me—to unworthy Stafford Orme!'"

"Yes?" she murmured, her voice thrilling. "You will be proud of me? Of me, the poor little country girl who rode about the dales in a shabby habit and an old hat? Stafford, Jessie was telling me that there is a very beautiful girl staying at the Villa at Brae Wood—one of the visitors. Jessie said she was lovely, and that all the men-servants, and the maids, too, were talking about her. She must be more beautiful than I am."

"Which of the women do you mean?" he said, indifferently, with the supreme indifference which the man who is madly in love feels for every other woman than the one of his heart.

"She is a fair girl, with blue eyes and the most wonderful hair; 'chestnut-red with gold in it,' as Jessie described it to me. And she says that this girl wears the most beautiful diamonds—I am still quoting Jessie—and other precious stones, and that she is very 'high and mighty,' and more haughty than any of the other ladies. Who is it?"

"I think she must mean Miss Falconer—Miss Maude Falconer," said Stafford, as indifferently as before, as he smoothed one of the silken tresses on her brow, and kissed it as it lay on his finger. "It is just the way a slave would describe her."

"And is she very beautiful?" asked Ida.

"Yes, I suppose she is," he said.

"You suppose!" she echoed, arching her brows, but with a frank smile about her lips, the smile of contentment at his indifference. "Don't you know?"

"Well, yes, she is," he admitted. "I've scarcely noticed her. Oh, but yes, she is; and she sings very well. Yes, I can understand her making a sensation in the servants' hall—she makes one in the drawing-room. But she's not my style of beauty. See here, dearest: it doesn't sound nice, but though I've spent some hours with Miss Falconer and listened to her singing, I have only just noticed that she is good-looking, and that she has a wonderful voice: they say up at the Villa that there's nothing like it on the stage—excepting Patti's and Melba's; but all the time she has been there I have had another face, another voice, in my mind. Ever since I saw you, down there by the river, I have had no eyes for any other woman's face, however beautiful, no ears for any other woman's voice, however sweet." She was silent a moment, as she clasped her hands and laid them against his cheek.

"How strange it sounds! But if you had chanced to see her first—perhaps you would not have fallen in love with me? How could you have done so? She is so very lovely—I can see she is, by Jessie's description."

He laughed.

"Even if I had not seen you, there was no chance of my falling in love with Miss Falconer, dearest," he said, smiling at her gravity and earnestness. "She is very beautiful, lovely in her way, if you like; but it is not my way. She is like a statue at most times; at others, just now and again, like a—well, a sleek tigress in her movements and the way she turns her head. Oh, there wasn't the least danger of my falling in love with her, even if I hadn't seen the sweetest and loveliest girl in all the wide world."

"And you will feel like that, feel so sure, so certain that you love me, even though you have seen and will see so many women who are far more beautiful than I am?" she said, dreamily.

"Sure and certain," he responded, with a long sigh. "If I were as sure of your love as I am of mine for you—Forgive me, dearest!" for she had raised her eyes to his with an earnestness that was almost solemn.

"You may be sure," she said, slowly. "I shall love you as long as I live. I know it! I do not know why. I only—feel it. Perhaps we may be parted—"

He laughed—but his hand closed on hers, and gripped them tightly.

—"But I shall always love you. Something has gone out of me—is it my heart?—and I can never take it back from you. Perhaps you may grow tired of me—it may be. I have read and heard of such things happening to women—you may see someone more beautiful than Miss Falconer, someone who will lead you to forget the little girl who rode through the rain in Herondale. If so, there will be no need to tell me; no need to make excuses, or ask for forgiveness. There would be no need to tell me, for something here"—she drew her hand from his and touched her bosom—"would tell me. You would only have to keep away from me—that is all. And I—ah well I should be silent, quite silent."

"Dearest!" he murmured, reproachfully, and with something like awe, for her brows were knit, her face was pale as ivory, and her eyes glowed. "Why do you say this now, just as—as we have confessed our love for each other? Do you think I shall be faithless? I could almost laugh! As if any man you deigned to love could ever forget you, ever care a straw for any other woman!"

She turned to him with a shudder, a little cry that was tragic in its intensity, turned to him and clenched her small hands on his breast.

"Swear to me!" she panted; then, as if ashamed of the passion that racked her, her eyes dropped and the swift red flooded her face. "No! you shall not swear to me, Stafford. I—I will believe you love me as I shall love you forever and forever! But if—if the time should come when some other girl shall win you from me, promise me that you will not tell me, that you will just keep away from me! I could bear it if—if I did not see you; but if I saw you—Oh!"—something like a moan escaped her quivering lips, and she flung herself upon his breast with the abandon, the unself-consciousness of a child.

Stafford was moved to his inmost heart, and for a moment, as he held her within the embrace of his strong arms, he could not command his voice sufficiently for speech. At last he murmured, his lips seeking hers:

"Ida! I swear that I will love you forever and forever!"

"But—but—if you break your vow, you promise that you will not come to me—tell me? I shall know. Promise, ah, promise!"

"Will nothing less content you? Must I?" he said, almost desperate at her persistence. "Then I promise, Ida!"