Presently she let them fall slowly and looked vacantly with her brows drawn—as if waiting for the return of some sharp pain—in the direction of Shorne Mills. The lights had gone out; so also had died the light of her young life.

She tried to realize what this was that had happened to her; but it was so difficult—so difficult! Only a little while ago she had been happy in the possession of Drake's love. He had been hers—was her sweetheart, her very own; he was to have been her husband; she was to have been his wife.

And now—what had happened? Was she dead—had she done some evil thing which had turned his love for her to hate and driven him from her?

Slowly the numbed sensation, the feeling of stupor passed, and the truth, as she thought of it, came upon her with a rush and made her press her hand to her heart as if a knife had stabbed it.

Drake loved her no longer. He had never loved her. The woman he had loved was the most beautiful of God's creatures, and Drake had only turned to her—Nell—in a moment of pique. And this woman with the perfect face, and soft, lingering voice; this woman whose every movement was grace itself, who carried herself like an empress—an empress in the first flush of her beauty and power—had changed her mind and called him back to her. And he had gone.

The fact caused such intense misery as to leave no room for resentment. At that moment there was not one spark of anger, one drop of bitterness in Nell's emotion; only misery so acute, so agonizing, as to be like a physical pain.

It seemed to her so natural, so reasonable, that he should desert her when this siren with the melting eyes, the caressing laugh, should beckon him; for who could have resisted her? Not any man who had once loved her.

Nell's head moved slowly from side to side, like that of an animal stricken to death. Her throat had grown tight, her eyes were hot and burning, the sound, as of the plash of waves, sang in her ears; but she could not cry. It seemed to her that she would never be able to cry again. She looked vaguely at the other women as they walked at the far end of the terrace, and she shivered as if with bodily fear. There was something terrible, Circe-like, to her in the face, the movements, the very voice of this woman who had taken Drake from her.

Presently the two exquisitely dressed figures passed into the house, and Nell rose, steadying herself by the pedestal. As she did so, she looked up. A streak of light shot right across the statue, and the cruel face with its leering eyes seemed to smile down upon her mockingly, jeeringly, and she actually shrank, as if she dreaded to hear the satyr lips shoot some evil gibe at her.

And all the while the music, a waltz of Waldteufel's, soft and ravishing and seductive, floated out to her, and mocked her with the memory of the happiness that had been hers but an hour—half an hour ago. She staggered to the edge of the terrace and leaned her head on her hands, and, closing her eyes, tried hard to persuade herself that it was only a dream; just a dream, from which she should wake shuddering at the unreal misery one moment, then laughing at its unreality the next.

But it was true. The dream had been the happiness of the last few weeks, and this was the awakening.

Before her mental vision passed, like a panorama, the days which the gods had given her—that they might punish her all the more cruelly for daring to be so happy.

Yes; how often had she asked herself what right she, Nell of Shorne Mills, had to so much joy? What had she done to deserve it?

She remembered now how, sometimes, she had been terrified by the intensity of her joy. That day Drake had told her that he loved her; the morning he had taken her in his arms and kissed her; the night he had looked down into her eyes and sworn that no man in all the world loved any woman as he loved her. She had not deserved it, had no right to it, and God had punished her for her presumption in daring to be so happy.

But now what was she to do?

She asked the question with a kind of despair.

It never for one moment occurred to her that she should accuse Drake of his faithlessness, much less that she should upbraid him. Indeed, what would be the use? Could she—she, an ignorant, half-taught girl, just Nell of Shorne Mills—contend against such a woman as this Lady Luce?

Luce! Luce! She remembered—for the first time that night, strangely enough—how he had murmured the name in his delirium. She had forgotten that, she had not thought of it, and had not asked who the woman was whose visage haunted him in his fever.

If she had only done so! He would have told her—yes, for Drake was honest; he would have told her—and she would not have allowed herself to fall in love with him. Even as it was, she had fought against it; but her struggle had been of no avail. She had loved him almost from the first moment.

And now she had lost him forever!

"Drake, Drake, Drake!" her heart called to him, though her lips were mute.

What should she do?

No; she would not upbraid him. There should be no "scene." She knew instinctively how much he would loathe a scene. She would just tell him—what? That—that—it had all been a mistake; that—she did not love him, and—and ask him to give her back her freedom.

That was all. Not one word of Lady Luce would she say. He would go—go without a word; she knew that.

And now she must go back to the ballroom, and try and look and behave as if nothing had happened.

Was she very white? she wondered dully. She felt as if she had died, and was buried out of reach of any pain, beyond all possibility of further joy. Her life was indeed at an end. That kiss of Drake's—to her it had appeared as if indeed it had been his, and not Luce's only, stolen from him unawares—that kiss had killed her.

Let Ibsen be a great poet and dramatist, or a literary fraud, there are one or two things which he says which strike men with the force of a revelation; and when he speaks of the love-life which is given to every man and woman, and calls him and her a murderer who kills it, he speaks truly, and as one inspired.

Nell's love-life lay dead at her feet, and Drake, though all unconsciously, had slain it.

She wiped her lips, though they were dry and parched, and with trembling hands smoothed her hair—the lips and the hair Drake had kissed so often, with such rapture—and slowly, fighting for strength and self-possession, passed into the ballroom.

The brilliant light, the music, the dancers, acted upon her overstrained nerves as a dash of cold water upon a swooning man. For the first time since the blow had fallen pride awoke in her. She had lost Drake forever; but she would make no moan; other women before her had lost their lovers and their husbands by death, and they had to bear their bereavements; she must learn to bear hers.

A young fellow hurried up to her with a mingled expression of relief and complaint.

"Oh, Miss Lorton; this is ours!" he said. "I have been looking for you everywhere, everywhere, on my honor, and I was nearly distracted!"

Nell moistened her lips and forced a smile.

"I have been out on the terrace; it—it was hot."

"And—you didn't feel faint? You look rather pale now!" he said apprehensively. "Would you rather not dance?"

"No, no; I would rather dance!" she replied, with a kind of feverish impatience. "I—I think I am cold." She shivered a little. "I shall be all the better for a dance!"

She went round like one moving in a dream; her eyes looking straight before her in a fixed gaze, her lips curved with a forced smile. After a moment or two she grew warmer; the blood began to circulate, a hectic flush started out on her cheeks.

Any one seeing her would have thought she was enjoying herself amazingly; would not have suspected that her heart was racked by agony; that the music was beating upon her brain, inflicting pain with every stroke; that she longed, with an aching longing, to be in the dark, in her own room, alone with her unspeakable misery.

One talks glibly enough of women's sufferings; but not one of us ever comes near gauging them, for the gods who have denied them some things have granted to the least of them the great power of enduring in silence, of smiling while they suffer, of murmuring commonplaces while the iron is cutting deeper and deeper into their souls. The nobler the woman the greater this power of hers; and there was much that was noble in poor Nell. And as she danced, those who looked at her were full of admiration or envy. She was so young; her loveliness was so untainted by the world; the delicate droop of the pure lips was so childlike, while it hinted of the deeper nature of the woman, that many who regarded her and then glanced at the professional beauty, mentally accorded Nell the palm.

And among them was Drake. He had gone straight to the smoking room, had lit a cigarette, and, pacing up and down, had, with stern lips and frowning brows, revolved the problem which fate had set him.

He swore under his breath, after the manner of men, as he went over the scene with Luce. What devil of ill chance had sent her down there? And why—why had she changed her mind? Was it really true that she—cared for, him still? He could scarcely believe it; and yet the caress of her hand, the look in her eyes, the—the—kiss——He flung the cigarette away—for he had bitten it in two—and fumed mentally. And what did she mean, think? Was it possible that she thought he could go back to her?

He laughed grimly, in mockery of the idea. Why, even if there had been no Nell, he could not have gone back to Luce. And there was Nell! Yes, thank God! there was Nell, his dear, sweet, beautiful Nell! His girl love, the girl who was like a pure star shining in God's heaven compared with a flame from—yes, from the nethermost pit. Love! He, who now knew what love meant, laughed scornfully at the idea in connection with Lady Luce. Passion it might be—but love! And she had left him with a kiss, as if she were convinced that she had recovered him! Oh, it was damnable, damnable!

Why—why, she might even behave in the ballroom as if—as if she had a right to claim him! She might even tell the Chesneys that—that——

He strode out of the smoking room in time to see the Chesney party taking their departure. As Lady Luce shook hands with the hostess and murmured her thanks for "a delightful evening"—and for once they were genuine and no idle formula—he saw her glance round the room as if in search of some one; but he drew back out of sight.

Then, when they had gone, he reËntered the ballroom and his eyes sought Nell. She met them, and he smiled, but rather anxiously, with a feeling of disquietude; for there was——Was there something strange in the expression of her face? But as she smiled back—can one imagine what that smile cost Nell?—he drew a breath of relief, found a partner, and joined in the dance.

By this time the party had reached the after-supper stage, and the waltzes had grown faster. A set of lancers had been danced with so much spirit and enjoyment that it had been encored. Some of the men were talking and laughing just a little loudly, and the women's faces were flushed with the one glass of champagne which is generally all they permit themselves, the spell of the music, and the excitement of rapid and rhythmical movement. Couples found their way into the anterooms and recesses, or sat very close together in corners of the great, broad staircase.

Some of the men had boldly deserted the ballroom and retreated to the smoking room, where they could play whist and drink and smoke: "Must wait for my womenfolk, you know."

Dick, at this, his first dance, was enjoying himself amazingly. He had gone steadily through the program, and as steadily through most of the dishes at supper, and he was now flirting, with all a boy's ardor, with a plump little girl, the niece of Lady Maltby.

She was "just out," and Dick had danced three dances in succession with her before she remembered that she was committing a breach of etiquette.

"Dance again with you? Oh, I couldn't!" she said, when Dick, with inward tremors but an outward boldness, begged for the fourth. "I mustn't—I really mustn't!"

"Why not?" demanded Dick innocently.

"If you weren't such a boy you wouldn't ask," she retorted severely, but with a smile lurking in her bright young eyes.

"I bet I'm as old as you are," he said.

"Are you? I don't think you are. You look as if you'd just come from school. I'm——No, I won't tell you. It was just a trick to learn my age. But if you must know why I won't dance again with you, it is because no lady ought to dance three times in succession with a man."

"But I'm only a boy, which makes all the difference, don't you see?" said Dick naÏvely. "Nobody cares what a boy does, you know. Come along."

She pretended to eye him severely.

"No; I won't 'come along.' And I think it's very rude of you not to take an answer."

"All right," he said cheerfully. "Then will you come and have some supper?"

"Why, it isn't half an hour ago since we had some."

"Then come and see me eat some more," he suggested.

"Thank you; but I am never very fond of seeing animals fed, even at the Zoo!"

"That was rather good," he said, with a grin. "My sister, Nell couldn't have put that one in more neatly."

"Your sister Nell? That's the girl over there, dancing with Captain White? How pretty she is!"

"Think so? Yes, she is, now you mention it. We are considered very much alike."

The girlish laughter, which he had been waiting for, rang out, and, taking advantage of it, Dick coaxed her into a corner on the stairs, where they could flirt to their hearts' content.

"I wonder whether you'd be offended if I told you that you were the jolliest—I mean nicest—girl I've met?" said the young vagabond, with an assumption of innocence and humility which robbed the remark of any offense—at any rate, for his hearer, whose eyes sparkled.

"Not at all. And I wonder whether you'd mind if I told you that I think you are the rudest and most—most audacious boy I ever met?"

"Not the least in the world, because it's no news—I mean that I'm—what was it—the rudest and most audacious? I have a sister, you know, and she deals in candor, candor in solid blocks. But what a mission my condition opens up before you, Miss Angel!"

"A mission?" she asked reluctantly, young enough to know that she was going to be caught somehow.

"Yes," he said, with demure gravity. "The mission of my reformation. If you think me so bad to-night, I don't know, I really don't, what you would have thought of me yesterday, before I had had the advantage of your elevating society. Now, Miss Angel, here is a chance for you—the great chance of your life! Continue your elevating influence. Your cousin has asked me to a rabbit shoot to-morrow."

"You'll shoot somebody. They really ought not to allow boys to carry guns——"

"Who's rude now?" he asked, with a grin. "I was going to say, when you interrupted me, that if you came out with the luncheon party, I should have the opportunity of a lesson in—in deportment and manners. See?"

"I shouldn't think of coming," she declared promptly.

"Oh, yes, you will," he said teasingly, and with an air of conviction. "Women always do what they wouldn't think of doing."

"Really!" she retorted, with mock indignation. "There is only one thing I can do, and it is my duty. I shall tell your sister——Oh, look!" she broke off suddenly, and with something like dismay in her voice, as she pointed downward.

Dick leaned over, and saw Nell, sitting on an old oak bench just below them. She was leaning back; her eyes were closed, and her face white.

"Oh, go to her; she is not well. I am so sorry! Go to her at once!"

Dick ran down the stairs, and the girl followed a step or two, then stood watching them timidly.

"Hallo, Nell! What's the matter?" asked Dick.

She opened her eyes and rose instantly, struggling with all a woman's courage beating in her heart to renew the fight, to play her part to the end of that never—never-ending night.

"Nothing, nothing. I am just a little tired, I think."

At this moment Drake came up.

"This is my dance, Nell," he said. His face, his voice were grave, for his soul was still disquieted within him. "I have been looking for you——"

He stopped suddenly and put out his hand, for her face had grown white again. She had raised her eyes to his for a moment with the look of a dumb animal in pain; but she lowered them instantly and bent aside to take up her dress.

"I am tired," she said, forcing a smile. "The heat—could we not go home? I—I mean, Dick and I—there is no need for you——"

"Yes, yes; at once; this instant!" he said. "Wait while I get you some water—wait——"

He went off quickly, and Nell turned to Dick.

"Will you order the fly, Dick?" she said, in a tone that was quite new to him.

It was, though the boy did not know it, the voice of the woman who has just parted with her girlhood.

"Don't wait, please. I shall be all right."

Dick left her, and Miss Angel came down to her timidly.

"Is there anything I can do—I know what it is. You feel faint——"

Nell smiled.

"God grant you may never know what it is," she thought, looking up at the girl's face, and feeling years and years older than she.

"Perhaps it is," she said. "But I shall be all right the moment I get into the air."

Miss Angel whipped off her shawl, which Dick had insisted upon her wearing.

"Come with me—you can wait just outside the hall. I know what it is; you want to get outside at once—at once!"

Nell went out with her, and as she felt the cool, fresh air, she drew a breath of relief; then she turned to the girl.

"I am all right now; you must not wait. I have your wrap——"

Dick came up with the fly, and Drake appeared with her cloak and a glass of wine. He had got his hat and coat as he came along. She drank some of the wine, and turned to hold out her hand to the girl and wish her good night and thank her.

"I am quite, quite right now!" Drake heard her say; and his fears—for to a man a woman's fainting fit is a terrible thing—were somewhat dispelled.

They got into the fly, and it drove off. Nell, instead of sinking into the corner, sat bolt upright and forced a smile.

"What a jolly evening!" said Dick, with a deep sigh. "Don't wonder you girls are so fond of parties."

"Yes," she said, with a brightness which deceived both of them, "it has been very jolly. What a pretty girl that is with whom you were sitting out, Dick!"

"I always thought you had great taste," he said approvingly. "She was the nicest girl there—as I ventured to tell her."

Nell laughed—surely the hollowness of the laugh must strike them, she thought—but neither of the two noticed its insincerity, and Dick rattled on, suspecting nothing.

Drake sat almost silent. To be near her, to have her so close to him, was all the sweeter after the hateful scene with Luce. Heaven! how different was this love of his to that other woman from whom he had escaped! It was a terrible word, but it was the only fitting one to his mind.

He would tell Nell in the morning. Yes, he would tell Nell who he was, and—and—of his engagement to Luce. It would be an unpleasant, hateful story, but he would tell it. There had been too much concealment, too much deceit; he had been a fool to yield to the temptation to hide his identity; he would make a clean breast of it to-morrow. Once he stretched out his hand in the direction of hers, but Nell, though her eyes were not turned in his direction, saw the movement, and quickly removed her hand beyond his reach.

The fly drew up at The Cottage, and Dick jumped out and opened the door with his key, and purposely went straight into the house. As Drake helped Nell out, she drew her hand away to gather up her dress, and went quickly into the little hall, and he followed her.

Her heart beat fast and painfully. She felt as if she could not lift her eyes; as if she were the guilty one. Would he—would he attempt to kiss her? Oh, surely, surely not! He could not be so false. She held out her hand.

"I am so sleepy," she said. "Good night!"

He looked at her as he held her hand, and at that moment the kiss which Luce had taken burned like fire upon his lips. He shrank from touching the pure lips of the girl he loved while the other woman's kiss still lingered on his consciousness. It would be desecration.

"You are all right now—not faint?" he said; and there was a troubled expression in his face and voice.

Nell thought she could read his mind, and knew the reason of his hesitation. A few hours ago he would have lost no time in catching her to his heart. But now—he loved her, no longer.

Her face went white, though she strove to keep the color in it.

"Yes, oh, yes!" she said. "I am only tired and—sleepy."

"Then I won't keep you," he said gravely. "Good night."

He had turned; but even as he turned, the longing in his heart grew too fierce for restraint. He swung round suddenly and caught her to him, drew her head upon his breast, and kissed her with passionate love—and remorse.

Nell strove for strength to repulse him, to free herself from his arms; but the strength would not come. For a moment she lay motionless, her lips upturned to his, her eyes seeking his, with an expression in them which haunted Drake for many a long year afterward.

"Nell," he said hoarsely, "I—I have something to tell you to-morrow. I—I have to ask your forgiveness. I would tell you to-night, but—I haven't courage. To-morrow!"

The words broke the spell. The flush of a hot, unbearable shame burned in her veins and shone redly in her face. With an effort, she drew herself from his arms and blindly escaped into the sitting room.

Drake raised his head and looked after her, biting his lip.

"Why not tell her to-night?" he asked himself. There was no guardian angel to whisper, "The man who hesitates is lost!" and thinking, "Not to-night; she is too tired—to-morrow!" he left the house.

Nell stood in the center of the room, her face white, her hands shaking; and Dick, as he peeled off what remained of his gloves, surveyed her critically.

"If I were you, young person, I'd have a stiff glass of grog before I tumbled into my little bed. Look here, if you like to go up now, I'll have a smoke, and bring you some up presently. You look—well, you look as if you were going to have the measles, my child."

Nell laughed discordantly.

"Do I?" she said, pushing the hair from her forehead with both hands, and staring before her vacantly. "Perhaps I am."

"Measles—or influenza," he said, with a pursing of the lips. "Get up to bed, Nell."

"I'm going," she said.

She came round the table, and, leaning both hands on his shoulders, bent her lovely head and kissed him.

"Dick, you—you care for me still?" she asked, in a strained voice.

He stared at her, as, brother like, he wiped the kiss from his lips.

"Care for you? What——Look here, Nell, you're behaving like a second-class idiot. And your lips are like fire. I'm dashed if I don't think you are going to have something."

She laughed and shook her head, and went upstairs. How long the few stairs seemed! Or was it that her legs seemed to have become like lead?

As she passed Mrs. Lorton's room, that lady's voice called to her. Nell opened the door, leaning against it.

"Is that you, Eleanor?" said Mrs. Lorton. "What a noise you made coming in! Really, I think you might have shown some consideration. You know how lightly I sleep. I've the news for you." There was a touch of self-satisfaction in her voice. "A letter has come. Here it is. You had better read it and think over it."

Nell crossed the room unsteadily in the dim flicker of the night light, and took the letter held out to her—took it mechanically—wished Mrs. Lorton good night, and went to her own room.

Before she had got there she had forgotten the letter, and it fell from her hand as she dropped on her knees beside the bed, her arms flung wide over the white counterpane, her whole frame shaking.

"Drake, Drake, Drake!" rose from her quivering lips. "Oh, God! pity me—pity me! I cannot bear it—I cannot bear it!"