"Eleanor!" he said hoarsely.

She looked at him as if she found it impossible to speak for a moment; then she drew herself upright, and pushed the wet hair from her forehead.

"Yes, it is I," she said, in a low voice, in which agony and pride struggled for the mastery.

"Where—where did you come from? How long——."

"Yes," she said, answering his unfinished question, "I have been listening. They told me at home that you had gone out to look for me, and I followed you. I heard your voice as I was passing, and I came into the garden. I have been standing by the window and——. Every word!" fell from her white lips.

"You—you should not have listened," he said "Come away," and he put out his hand as if to draw her outside; but she did not move.

"I am going presently," she said, speaking as if with an effort. "I—I want to say something. Yorke——." She seemed as if she were about to break down, but mastered her emotion and came a step or two farther into the room. "Yorke, you have not heard all yet, not the whole truth. He," she glanced at Ralph Duncombe, "could not tell you, but I will."

A presentiment of what was coming fell on Yorke and he tried to stop her.

"No!" he said. "Say no more, Eleanor, but come home with me."

"I cannot," she said. "I must speak. Miss Lisle——." She drew nearer to Leslie, who had risen and stood against the window, her hands clasped, her head turned away. "Miss Lisle, you have been cruelly wronged. And by me!"

Leslie started and looked up quickly. Lady Eleanor gazed at her, seeing her face distinctly for the first time, and so the two stood and looked at each other—these two beautiful women who were fated to love the same man!

"It was I who—who separated you from Lord Auchester."

Yorke held up his hand to stop her.

"Eleanor!"

But she did not remove her eyes from Leslie's face.

"Yes, I. It was I who employed Mr. Duncombe to buy the debts and summon Lord Auchester."

Ralph Duncombe looked up.

"Is—is this necessary, Lady Eleanor?" he said gravely. "I am ready to take all the responsibility."

"No," she said. "It was I! The woman Finetta told me that the marriage was to take place, and I did all I could to prevent it. You wonder that I should admit it?" she smiled, with a mixture of pride and despair. "I have told you that I have been standing by the window there, and have heard all. Do you think that I would hold Lord Auchester to his promise, that I would consent to his marrying me now that I know he is in love with another woman?"

Her eyes flashed and her lips curved haughtily, though her voice was as low as before.

"I tell you this now," she went on, "that Lord Auchester may not hold Mr. Duncombe to blame. The sin, if sin there was, was mine, and I atone for it!" As she spoke the last words she glided across the room and stood in front of Leslie.

"Miss Lisle, if I were to say that I am sorry, you would not believe me. You are a woman like myself, and—you will understand! I knew Lord Auchester before you did, and"—she looked round haughtily—"I loved him. If there is any shame in that, I accept it. He knew that I loved him."

"For God's sake, be silent—come away!" exclaimed Yorke almost inaudibly.

She glanced at him as if she scarcely saw him.

"It was the happiest, proudest day of my life when he asked me to be his wife, and—and in the conviction that I could, and should, make him happy, I did not regret the means by which I had won him. I forgot, you see," she smiled bitterly, "that the day of reckoning might come. It has come and I face it! All the world may know the story——."

"No, no! Oh, no!" panted Lucy, whose gentle heart was melted by the agony which she knew this proud woman was suffering.

Lady Eleanor did not even look at her.

"I do not care who knows!" she said. "I have made my confession, and I have done with it." She made an eloquent gesture with her hands.

There was silence for a moment; then she said, addressing Leslie, in a low, distinct voice:

"I do not ask for your forgiveness, Miss Lisle. If I stood in your place I should find it as impossible to forgive as you do. I will not even utter the conventional wish that you may be happy. I tried to ruin your happiness in securing my own, and I have failed. Let that console you, as it will torture me! If you need further consolation, take it in the assurance that he has loved you all the time he has been promised to me. Yes!" she said with a deep sigh, "I have felt that all through. His heart was always yours, never mine. If this evening's work had never been, if we had married, he would have gone on loving you, and my punishment would have been greater than it is."

She was silent a moment; then, still looking at Leslie, she said, inaudibly to the rest:

"That woman, Finetta, lied when she spoke of you. Yes! I can understand how he came to choose you before me!"

She turned and drew her cloak round her and moved to the door. Yorke started as if roused from a kind of stupor, and went forward as if to accompany her, but she drew away from him.

"Your place is here," she said icily, "not with me!"

He stopped, irresolute, half dazed by conflicting emotions, and she looked over her shoulder at Ralph Duncombe.

"I ordered my carriage to follow me," she said in a dull, mechanical voice. "Will you see if it is on the road, Mr. Duncombe?"

He started forward and offered his arm; but Yorke motioned him aside and took her hand.

"No!" he said hoarsely. "My place is by your side. You are my promised wife, Eleanor!"

He spoke the words in the tone a man might use who is about to lead a forlorn hope which must end in death, as a man who is resigning all chance of happiness. She understood and smiled bitterly as she drew her hand from his.

"Pardon me, Lord Auchester," she said pointing bitterly to Leslie, "there stands your promised wife," and with one long look into his face she turned and left them.

Yorke was a gentleman. He could not let the woman whom he was pledged to marry in a few hours go out into the night like an outcast. He followed her and Ralph Duncombe.

"Eleanor," he said in deep agitation, "you will let me come with you?"

The sound of wheels was heard on the muddy road, and she stood and listened to them rather than to him.

"Eleanor, think what you do!" he said. "I stand by my promise, my engagement, notwithstanding——."

"Notwithstanding that I obtained it by a fraud!" she said, turning her eyes upon him. "Yes, I knew you would say that; and I am grateful. But you forget, Yorke, I heard every word you said. You would give me—what? not yourself, not your heart? You cannot, it belongs to her. Go to her! Forget me!" Then her voice broke, her pride melted, and she held out her arms to him, her white face drawn and haggard. "Oh, Yorke, I loved you so! No, do not come near me! I am not so degraded as to accept such a sacrifice! You love her, and I do not wonder! No, I do not wonder! She is more beautiful than I am, and better, a thousand times better! You will make her happy, and—oh, how much more is this! she will make you happy. Good-by! Go back to her! Plead to her, kneel to her, to forgive you. You will find it hard, these good women are always harder than we are! She would not have done as much to win you as I have, and will therefore, be all the slower to forgive! But go! And—and——." The carriage was drawing near. She threw back the hood of the cloak and flashed all her proud white loveliness upon him. "When you think of me, think of me as I am at this moment, at the moment I relinquished you!"

He stood motionless, and she drew near and laid a white hand upon each of his shoulders, looked into his eyes, a lingering farewell look; then as Ralph Duncombe opened the carriage door, she let her hands drop slowly and got into the carriage. Ralph was following her, but she stayed him with a gesture.

"No, no! Alone! Alone!" came from her parted lips.

The word "Alone! Alone!" fell like a funeral knell upon Yorke's ear; it was the last word he was to hear from Lady Eleanor's lips for many a year.

The two men stood and gazed after the carriage; then Yorke turned upon Ralph Duncombe.

"At any rate, I have a man to deal with now!" he said savagely.

"And one who will not shrink from the encounter, my lord," responded Ralph promptly.

"You have to account to me for your conduct Mr Duncombe," said Yorke. "You have interfered in my affairs most unwarrantably. What have you to say?"

Ralph Duncombe flushed angrily and a passionate retort rose to his lips, but he crushed it down.

"You have every right to demand an explanation, Lord Auchester," he said with an unnatural calmness, "and I give it you. I interfered because I once loved Miss Lisle, and because I did not consider you a fit husband for her. I judged you by the estimate I had formed on hearsay. I thought that I was doing Miss Lisle a service in helping to prevent the marriage."

Yorke swore.

"Even your anger shall not stop me in confessing that I erred," Ralph went on. "I was wrong, I admit it. But I did what I did for the best."

"The best!" groaned Yorke.

"Yes! You cannot but know the character the world gives you. A spendthrift—one who carried on an intrigue with a dancing woman——."

Yorke held up his hand.

"No more, sir!" he said sternly.

But Ralph went on doggedly:

"I thought I was acting wisely and righteously in preventing your marriage to such a woman as Leslie Lisle. I admit I was wrong; and I am ready to yield you any satisfaction you may desire."

Yorke looked into the honest face, into the steadfast eyes, for a moment; then he sighed.

"You are right. I was never worthy of her! What man of us all is?"

"None!" said Ralph. "But, notwithstanding, I say, go and ask her to be your wife, Lord Auchester."

Yorke seemed staggered by this knockdown advice, and hung his head. Then he looked up, breathing hard.

"I will," he said, and he strode into the house, Ralph Duncombe remaining outside.

Leslie had sunk into a chair, and Lucy was kneeling beside her, holding her hands and murmuring those inarticulate words of sympathy and consolation which only women can utter—for at such times a man is always an imbecile and a fool.

Yorke strode in and bent over the chair.

"Leslie," he said, in a hoarse, broken voice. "Leslie, I have come back to you. I don't know what to say to you, except that I love you, that I have never ceased to love you since the first day we met there at Portmaris. Will you forgive me? Will you be my wife, Leslie?"

A profound silence followed his impassioned words. Lucy, kneeling, held Leslie's hands.

"Speak to him, dear," she whispered, the tears rolling down her face. "Speak to him, Leslie."

But Leslie could not speak. She was a woman, just a woman, and she found it hard to forgive his betrothal to Lady Eleanor. All else counted for nothing. But that——! She sat motionless and dumb.

"I understand," he said, almost inaudibly. "You are right. Well—good-by, Leslie, good-by!"

"Leslie!" whispered Lucy in an agony.

But still Leslie did not move, but sat, her face hidden, her hands tightly clasped.

"It's no use," said Yorke. "It is more than I could hope for! Good-by, Leslie!"

"Leslie, dear, dear Leslie, he is going!" whispered Lucy. But Leslie remained motionless and silent, and Yorke, with a groan, left them.

"Well?" said Ralph, as Yorke came out into the darkness and the rain.

Yorke shook his head.

"I have failed," he said grimly.

"What? Stop!" exclaimed Ralph moved to pity by the despair and hopelessness of the voice. "Why, man, she loves you!"

Yorke shook his head again.

"Not now," he said, in a dull, heavy way. "She did, but now I have lost her. The best, the sweetest——." His voice broke.

Ralph Duncombe seized his arm.

"Wait!" he said. "You are wrong! If ever a woman loved a man, Leslie Lisle loves you!"

Yorke disengaged his arm from Ralph's grasp.

"There is no hope for me," he said, despairingly. "I have lost her," and he passed through the gate, and was swallowed up by the darkness.

Lady Eleanor reached White Place, and went straight to her own room, and presently Lady Denby came to her.

"Good heavens, Eleanor, what have you been doing to yourself?" she exclaimed, as she stared at the dripping cloak. "Why, you are wet to the skin! You will catch your death of cold. Where is Yorke?"

"Yorke?" said Lady Eleanor, with a spasmodic laugh. "Yorke will not trouble you again, aunt. He has gone!"

"Gone!"

"Yes, for good! There will be no wedding the day after to-morrow."

"My dear Eleanor, are you mad?"

"No, I am sane at last," said Lady Eleanor. "The engagement is broken off. Do you remember my telling you, when I heard of Eustace's death, and his boys', that I was afraid things would go wrong? Well, they have gone wrong. For Heaven's sake, don't stare at me like that! Tell my maid to pack my clothes; I shall leave here to-morrow."

"But—but, what has happened?" demanded Lady Denby.

Lady Eleanor laughed harshly.

"He has found the girl he has been in love with all this time. It is not me he wanted to marry, but her. That's all! Tell them to pack up!"

"But—but, my dear Eleanor!"

Lady Eleanor flung her wet hair from her face.

"There is no 'but,'" she said wearily. "He has gone. Let us go away out of England, no matter where. And—and the day after to-morrow was to be my wedding day! No wedding day will ever dawn for me!"

She sank upon a sofa and hid her face and lay motionless for an hour, Lady Denby standing near. Then suddenly Lady Eleanor started and raised her head.

"What was that?"

"I heard nothing," said Lady Denby.

"I heard a horse; some one has ridden out of the courtyard. It is Yorke. That is the last of him!"

It was Yorke. He had walked swiftly through the lane to White Place, and going straight to the stable had saddled his horse.

"It's a dark night, my lord," said the groom, who held the lantern, and he looked curiously and apprehensively at the stern face. "An' the ground's soft and slippery, my lord," he added.

Yorke did not, however, seem to hear him, but tossing him a sovereign leapt into the saddle and went out of the courtyard at a canter. The horse was fresh and somewhat startled at being taken out so late and into the darkness, and under ordinary circumstances Yorke would have let him go easy until he quieted down, but to-night he had no thought for the horse or himself, or anything else; and when they had got outside the park and on the London road he let the animal have its head, and even touched it with his heel. This was quite enough, and they went spinning along the slippery road at a breakneck pace. It was very dark, the rain was still coming down in good old English fashion, and the horse was getting more and more nervous as he felt, by some instinct, that his master was riding carelessly and recklessly. Yorke scarcely knew whether he was riding or walking until suddenly he saw something white flash along the ground in front. It was only a white cat, but if it had been a ghost the horse could not have been more frightened. He stopped almost instantly and shied, and, on Yorke's striking him, reared. Yorke was a good rider and kept his seat, but when he struck the horse again and tried to force him over, the animal, half mad with fright, reared still higher, until he stood as upright as a circus horse; then, losing his balance, slipped on the greasy road and came down backward on the top of Yorke.

It was done in a moment, with scarcely any sound save the clatter and splash of the horse's hoofs as he rose and shook himself, trembling and panting, and in the silence of the night Yorke lay motionless, his whole length stretched out upon the ground, the rain beating down upon his upturned face.

Ralph Duncombe had gone to the inn and the two girls, left alone, were still in the parlor. Leslie had scarcely changed her attitude, and seemed sunk in lethargic indifference, which was really the result of exhaustion, and though she listened to Lucy's arguments and prayers, made no response to them.

Lucy pleaded hard for Yorke. With a woman's quick insight she had pierced the haze by which his actions and motives seemed obscured, and had jumped at, rather than worked out, the whole truth.

"Are you going to let him go, Leslie," she asked for the twentieth time, "after all he has suffered?"

"I have suffered also," said Leslie at last.

"But through no fault of his! Or, at any rate, not entirely through his fault. Is it because he changed titles with the duke that you are so angry, and will not forgive him?"

Leslie shook her head.

"I do not care about that," she said simply.

"Is it because he was so great a friend with that dancing woman?"

Leslie's face flushed, but she shook her head.

"No," said Lucy quickly. "He had not seen you then, remember. He said good-by to her after he had met you. You needn't want any more than that. What is it then? Ah, it is because of his engagement to Lady Eleanor!"

Leslie turned her face away her brows drawn together.

"But think, dear!" pleaded Lucy. "What could he do? Lady Eleanor had saved him from ruin—he did not know that it was she and Ralph who had driven him into a corner; remember, she had saved him, and he knew that she loved him, and he thought that you had thrown him over. Oh, Leslie, he only did what any man would have done. Forgive him, dear! He loves you with all his heart and soul, any one—a woman especially—can see that. There, you are trembling! Leslie, let your heart speak for you. Let me send for him!" and she rose, as if she meant to sally out that moment and bring Yorke back, but Leslie caught her arm.

"No," she said with a set face. "I must think. I cannot forget that he was going to be married to—to Lady Eleanor the day after to-morrow. It is better that he should keep to his engagement to that lady."

She could forgive him everything but his betrothal to Lady Eleanor.

As she spoke she kissed Lucy and went to her own room. In crossing the parlor she saw the locket with Yorke's portrait lying on the floor. She paused a moment, a moment only, then went on, and left it lying there.

But half an hour afterward, when all was still, the door opened, and she entered the room and picked up the locket, gazed at the portrait, and was about to press it to her lips, when she stopped and shuddered, remembering in whose keeping the locket had been. Indeed, she was about to drop it on the floor again, when a singular sound broke the stillness. It was as if some one were moving in the garden. She thrust the locket into the bosom of her dress and went to the window. The rain had ceased, and there was a glimmer of moonlight between the clouds. By this uncertain light she saw something standing on the small lawn. She was rather frightened for a moment, till she saw it was a horse. She was not in a condition of mind to care very much about the garden, but she thought of Lucy's pride in it, and fondness for it, and she opened the door and stole out, intending to drive the horse, which she suspected had strayed from one of the adjoining meadows, through the gate.

But when she got near it she saw that it was saddled. She did not immediately realize the significance of this fact. Then it flashed upon her, and she ran into the house and into Lucy's room. Lucy was still dressed, and seemed to expect her.

"I heard you moving about, dear," she said lovingly, "and I knew you would come to tell me that you had forgiven him and taken him back."

"No, no!" exclaimed Leslie. "Come—come at once!"

They ran down hand in hand, and Lucy uttered a cry of alarm as she saw the horse.

"Oh, my dahlias, Leslie! Oh, oh!"

"Hush!" said Leslie in a whisper. "Don't you see? It is saddled! There has been an accident. Get the lantern, Lucy! Quick! I will catch the horse!"

"No, no, you cannot!"

But Leslie went up to the great creature guardedly, and after a moment's fidgeting he allowed her to get hold of the bridle.

Lucy was back with the lantern in a moment or two, and stood trembling; it was Leslie who was calm and cool now.

"Look, Lucy, there is blood on his shoulder and back! He has fallen, and—and I am afraid for his rider. Wait!"

She snatched the lantern from Lucy's hand, and running to the road, examined it.

"Thank God for the rain!" she said fervently. "See, every hoof mark!"

She slung the bridle over the gate, and holding the lantern close to the ground, followed the tracks. It was Lucy who first saw the motionless figure lying in the road, and she uttered a faint scream.

In another moment she was kneeling beside it, and then she stretched out her arm as if to hide the white, blood-stained face from Leslie.

"Keep back! Don't come near!" she gasped in a paroxysm of terror. "Oh, Leslie, Leslie, it is he!"

Leslie sank on to her knees, and put Lucy's arm aside, and looked at the face.

"He is dead!" she screamed. "Dead! I have killed him!" And uttering heartbroken wails like some wild, distraught creature, she took his head upon her bosom and held it there, calling upon his name in an agony of despair and remorse.