Nell sat still—very, very still. The vast room seemed to rise and sway before her like a ship in a heavy sea; the lights danced in a mad whirl; the music roared a chaos of sound in her ears, and a deathly feeling crept over her.

"I will not faint—I will not faint!" she said to herself, clenching her teeth hard, and gripping her dress with her cold hands. "It is a mistake—a mistake. It is not Drake. I thought I saw him the other night; it is thinking, always thinking of him, that makes me fancy any one like him must be he! Yes; it is a mistake."

She closed her eyes for a moment, and when she opened them and found that the room had ceased rocking, and the lights were still, she leaned forward, calling all her courage to her aid, and looked again.

A waltz was in progress, and the rich dresses, the flashing jewels whirled like the colored pieces of a kaleidoscope, and for a moment or two she could not distinguish the members of the glittering crowd; but presently she saw the tall figure again. He was dancing with Lady Luce; they came down toward the gallery end of the room, floating with the exquisite grace of a couple whose steps are in perfect harmony, and Nell saw that she had made no mistake—that it was Drake indeed.

She drew a long breath, and sank back; Mrs. Hawksley leaned toward her.

"Do you feel faint, Miss Lorton? It's very hot up here. Would you like to go down——"

"No, no!" said Nell quickly, almost anxiously. She did not want to go. It was agony to see him dancing with this beautiful woman, whose hair shone like gold, whose grace of form and movement were conspicuous even among so many graceful and beautiful women; but a kind of fascination made Nell feel as if she could not go, as if she must drain her cup of misery to the dregs. "No, no; I am not faint—not now. It is hot, but I am—all right."

She gazed with set face and panic-stricken eyes at the couple, as they floated down the room again. It was Drake, but—how changed! He looked many years older—and his face was stern and grave—sterner and graver and sadder even than when she had first seen it that day the horse had flung him at her feet. It had grown brighter and happier while he had stayed at Shorne Mills—it had been transformed, indeed, for the few short weeks he had been her lover; but the look of content, of joy in life which it wore in her remembrance, had gone again. Had he been ill? she wondered. Where had he been; what had he been doing?

But it did not matter, could not matter to her. He was back in England, and dancing with the woman he loved—with the beautiful Lady Luce, whom he had kissed on the terrace.

"And what do you think of his lordship?" Mrs. Hawksley asked, as if the Right Honorable the Earl of Angleford were her special property. "I wasn't far wrong, was I, Miss Lorton, when I said that he would be the finest, handsomest man in the room?"

"No," said Nell, scarcely knowing what she answered. "That is——" She put her hand to her lips. Even now she had not realized that her Drake and the earl were one and the same man. "Oh, yes; he is handsome, and——" she finished, as the old lady eyed her half indignantly. "But I—I have made a mistake. I mean——What was Lord Angleford called before he succeeded to the title?"

Mrs. Hawksley looked at her rather curiously.

"Why, Lord Selbie, of course," she said. "He ought, being one of the Anglefords, to have been Lord Vernon, Drake Vernon; but his father was a famous statesman, a governor of New South Wales and they made him a viscount. Do you understand?" she asked, proud of her own knowledge of these intricacies of the earl's names and titles.

Poor Nell looked confused. But it did not matter. She had learned enough. Drake Vernon, who had made her love him, and had asked her to be his wife, had been Lord Selbie. Why had he concealed his rank? Why had he deceived her? He had seemed so honest and true, that she would have trusted him with her life as freely as she had given him her love; and all the while——Oh, why had he done it? Was it worth while to masquerade as a mere nobody, to pretend that he was poor? Had he, even from the very first, not intended to marry her? Was he only—amusing himself?

Her face was dyed, with the shame of the thought, for a moment, then the hot flush went and left her pale and wan.

Drake was the Earl of Angleford, and she—she the girl whose heart he had broken, was in his house, looking on at him among his guests! The thought was almost unendurable, and she slowly rose from her chair; then she sat down again, for she was trembling and quite incapable of leaving the gallery.

How long she sat in this state she did not know. The ball went on. She saw Drake—no, the earl—would she never realize it?—dancing frequently. Sometimes he joined the group of dowagers and chaperons on the dais at the other end of the room, or leaned against the wall and talked with the nondancing men; and wherever he went she saw that he was received with that subtle empressement with which the children of Vanity Fair indicate their respect for high rank and wealth.

"You can see how high his lordship stands not only in the county, but everywhere," said Mrs. Hawksley proudly. "They treat him almost as if he were a prince of the blood; and he is the principal gentleman here, though there's some high and mighty ones down there, Miss Lorton, I assure you. That's the Duchess of Cleavemere in that big chair on the dais; and that's her eldest daughter—she'll be as big as the duchess, mark my words—seated beside her; and that's the Marquis of Downfield, that tall gentleman with the white hair. He's a great man, but he can't hold a candle, in appearance, to our earl; and he's a poor man compared with his lordship. And that's Lord Turfleigh, that old gentleman with the very black hair and mustache; dyed, of course, my dear. The 'wicked Lord Turfleigh' they call him—and no wonder. He's the father of Lady Luce. Ah! his lordship's going to dance with her again! Look how pleased her father looks. See, he's nodding and smiling at her; I'll be bound I know what he's thinking of! And I shouldn't be surprised if it came off. Lord Selbie and she used to be engaged, but it was broken off when his lordship's uncle married. The Turfleighs are too poor to risk a marriage without money. But his lordship's the earl now, and, of course——"

Nell understood. It was because the woman he loved had jilted him that Drake had hidden himself from the world at Shorne Mills. That was why he had looked so sad and cast down the day she had first seen him.

"It's a pity your brother doesn't come up," said Mrs. Hawksley, who was standing behind Nell, and could not see the white, strained face. "He'd enjoy the sight, I'm sure. I'm half inclined to send a word to him."

Nell caught her arm. Dick must not come up here and recognize Drake, must not see her white face and trembling lips. If possible, she must leave Anglemere in the morning; must induce Dick to go before he could learn that Drake and Lord Angleford were one and the same.

"My brother would not come," she said. "Please do not send for him. He—the lights——"

Mrs. Hawksley nodded.

"As you think best, my dear," she said. "But it's a pity. Here's the interval now. What is going on in the orchestra?"

Nell looked toward the band, which had ceased playing; but Falconer was softly tuning his violin. About half the dancers had left the room, and those that remained were pacing up and down, talking and laughing, or seated in couples in the alcoves and recesses.

Falconer finished tuning, glanced toward Nell—the gallery was too dimly lit for him to see the pallor of her face—then began to play a solo.

Coming after the dance music, the sonata he had chosen was like a breath of pure, heather-scented air floating in upon the gas-laden atmosphere of the heated room; and at the first strains of the delicious melody the people below stopped talking, and turned their eyes up to the front of the gallery, where the tall, thin form in its worn velvet jacket stood, for that moment, at least, the supreme figure.

Nell, as she listened, felt as if a cool, pitying hand had fallen upon her aching heart; as if a voice of thrilling sweetness were whispering tender consolation. Never loud, but with an insistent force which held the listeners in thrall, sometimes so low that it was but a murmur, the exquisite music stole over the senses of all, awakening tender memories, reviving scattered hopes, softening, for the short space it held its sway, world-hardened hearts.

The tears gathered in Nell's eyes, bringing her infinite relief; but she could see through her tears that the great hall was filling with the hasty return of those who had been within hearing of the music, and when it ceased there rose a burst of applause, led by the earl himself.

"How very beautiful!" exclaimed the duchess, who was on his arm. "The man must be a genius. Where did you find him, Lord Angleford?"

Drake did not reply for a moment, as if he had not heard her. The music had moved him more deeply, perhaps, than it had moved any other. His face was set, his brows knit, and his head drooped as if weighed down by some memory. He had been so occupied by his duties as host that he had forgotten the past for that hour or two, at any rate; but at the first strains of the music Nell came back to him. It was the swell of the tide against the Annie Laurie; it was Nell's voice itself which he heard through the melody of the famous sonata. He listened with an aching longing for those past weeks of pure and perfect love, with a loathing for the empty, desolate present. "Nell! Nell!" his heart seemed to cry.

"I beg your pardon," he said. "I did not find him. He is here by chance."

"He must be a very great musician," said the duchess enthusiastically. "What is his name?"

"Falconer," replied Drake. "He's staying at one of the lodges."

"He played superbly. Do you think I could persuade him to come on to the court for the ninth? I wish you'd ask him. But surely he is going to play again?" she added eagerly.

"I will ask him," said Drake.

"Yes, do, Drake," murmured Lady Luce, who had reËntered the room and glided near him. The divine music had not touched her in the least; indeed, she had thought the solo rather out of place at a dance—quite too sad and depressing; but as she seconded the duchess' request, her blue eyes seemed dim with tears, and her lips tremulous. "It was so very beautiful! I am half crying!" and the perfectly shaped lips pouted piteously.

Drake nodded, led the duchess to a chair, and went slowly up the room toward the gallery stairs.

Nell, who had been watching him in a dull, vacant way, lost him for a moment or two; then she heard his voice near her, and saw him dimly standing in the gallery doorway.

She stifled a cry, and shrank back behind Mrs. Hawksley, so that the stout form of the old lady completely hid her.

"Mr. Falconer?" she heard the deep voice say gravely.

Falconer bowed, his violin under his arm, his pale, thin face perfectly composed. His music was still ringing in his ears, vibrating in his soul, too great to be stirred by the applause which had again broken out.

"I have come to thank you for the sonata, Mr. Falconer, and to ask you to be so kind as to play again," said Drake, in the simple, impassive manner of the Englishman.

"I shall be very pleased, my lord," said Falconer quietly; and he placed his violin in position.

Drake looked absently round the gallery. It was only dimly lit by the candles in the music stands, and the servants had respectfully drawn back, so that Nell was still hidden; but she trembled with the fear that those in front of her might move, and that he might see her; for she knew how keen those eyes of his could be.

Drake felt that the dim light was a pleasant contrast to the brilliance of the room below, and he lingered, leaning against the wall, his arms folded, his head drooped. He was so near Nell that she could almost have touched him—so near that she almost dreaded that he must hear the wild throbbings of her heart. Once, as the violin wailed out a passionate, despairing, yet exquisitely sweet passage of the Raff cavatina Falconer was playing, she heard Drake sigh.

The cavatina came to an end, the last notes—those wonderful notes!—floating lingeringly like a human voice, and yet more exquisite than any human voice. Falconer lowered his violin, the applause broke out again as vehemently and enthusiastically as if the crowd below were at an ordinary concert, and Drake made his way to the player. As he did so, he stumbled over a violin case, the servants with a little cry—for the stumble of an Earl of Angleford is a matter of importance—moved apart, and Drake, putting out his hand as he recovered himself, touched Mrs. Hawksley's arm.

"I beg your pardon," he said. "Ah! is it you, Mrs. Hawksley? You are so pleasantly dark up here."

His eyes wandered from her face to that of the girl who had been shrinking behind her, and he paused, as if smitten by some sudden thought or memory. But Nell rose quickly and hid herself in the group, and Drake went on to Falconer.

"Thank you again," he said. "I have never heard the cavatina—it was it, wasn't it?—better played. I am the bearer of a message from the Duchess of Cleavemere, Mr. Falconer. If you are not engaged, the duchess would be very glad if you could play for her at Cleavemere Court on the ninth of next month. I ask you at once and so unceremoniously, because her grace is anxious to know. The ninth."

Falconer bowed.

"May I consider, my lord?" he began hesitatingly.

"Why, certainly," said Drake, in the frank, pleasant fashion which Nell knew so well. "Will you send me word? Thanks. That is a fine violin you have."

"It was my father's," said Falconer simply, and unconsciously pressing the instrument closer to him, as if it were a living thing, a well-beloved child.

He had often sold, pawned his belongings for bread, and as often had forgotten his cold and hunger because his precious violin had remained in his possession; that he had never pawned.

Drake nodded, as if he understood; then he looked round.

"Isn't there some supper going, Mrs. Hawksley?" he said pleasantly.

The old lady curtsied in stately fashion.

"Yes, my lord."

"Then it's high time Mr. Falconer—and the rest of us—were at it," he said; and, with a smile and a nod, he left the gallery.

He would have taken Falconer with him to the supper in the banquet room below, but he knew that, though none of the men or women there would have remarked, or cared about, the old velvet jacket, the musician would be conscious of it, and be embarrassed by it.

While Drake had been absent, Lady Luce had stood, apparently listening with profound attention and sympathy, but the movement of her fan almost gave her away, for it grew rapid now and again, and when Lord Turfleigh came up beside her, his hawklike eyes glancing sharply, like those of a bird of prey, from their fat rims, she shot an angry and unfilial glance at him.

"Where's Drake?" he asked, lowering his thick voice.

"Up there in that gallery somewhere; gone to pay compliments to that fiddler fellow who is playing now."

"Gad!" said his lordship, with a stare of contempt at the rapt audience. "What the devil does he want with the 'Dead March in Saul,' or whatever it is, in the middle of a dance. Always thought he was mad! Has he spoken, said anything?"

He lowered his voice still more, and eyed her eagerly.

She shook her head slightly by way of answer, and the coarse face reddened.

"Curse me, if I can understand it—or you," he said, his hand tugging at his dyed mustache. "You told me, God knows how long ago, that he was 'on' again; then he bolts—disappears."

"Do you want all these people to hear you?" she asked, her eyes hidden by her slowly moving fan.

Her father had been several times to the refreshment buffet, and had "lowered"—as he would have put it—the best part of a bottle of champagne, and was a little off the guard which he usually maintained so carefully.

"They can't hear. I'm not shouting. And you always evade me. You're not behaving well, Luce. Dash it all! I've reason to be anxious! This match means a good deal to me in the present state of our finances!"

"Hush!" she whispered warningly. "I can't explain now. I don't understand it myself; but I've seen enough to know that I should only lose him altogether if I tried to force him. You know him, or ought to do so! Did you ever get anything from Drake by driving him? He had no opportunity of speaking, of explaining."

"By gad! I don't understand it!" he muttered. "Either you're engaged to him or you're not. You led me to believe that the match was on again——"

The fan closed with a snap, and her blue eyes flashed at him with bitter scorn.

"Hadn't you better leave me to play the game?" she asked. "Or perhaps you think you can play it better than I can? If so——The man has stopped; Drake will be down again. I don't want him to see us talking. Go—and get some more champagne."

Lord Turfleigh swore behind the hand that still fumbled at his mustache, and walked away with the jerky, jaunty gait of the old man who still affects youth, and Lady Luce composed her lovely face into a look of emotional ecstacy.

"Oh, how beautiful, Drake!" she said. "Do you know that I have been very nearly crying? And yet it was so sweet, so—so soothing! Who is he? And what are we going to do now?" she asked, without waiting for an answer to her first question, about which she was more than indifferent.

Drake looked round for the duchess.

"I must take the duchess in to supper," he said apologetically. "I will find some one for you—or perhaps you will wait until I will come for you?"

"I will wait, of course," she said, with a tender emphasis on the "of course."

Those who had been listening followed Drake and the duchess to the supper room, talking of the wonderful violin playing as they went; and Lady Luce seated herself in a recess and waited. Several men came to her and offered to take her to supper, but she made some excuse for refusing, and presently Drake returned.

She rose and took his arm, and glanced up at him, not for the first time that evening, curiously. The easy-going, indolent Drake of old seemed to have disappeared, and left in his place this grave and almost stern-mannered man. She had always been just a little afraid of him, with the fear which is always felt by the false and shifty in the presence of the true and strong; and to-night she was painfully conscious of that vague and wholesome dread.

He found a place for her at a small table, and a footman brought them things to eat and drink; but though she affected a blythe and joyous mood, tapping her satin-clad foot to the music which had begun again, she was too excited, too anxious, to enjoy the costly delicacies before her.

"I have so much to tell you, Drake!" she said, in a low voice, after one or two remarks about the ball and its success. "It seems years, ages, since I saw you! Why—why did you go away for so long, Drake? And why did you not write to me?"

He looked at her with his grave eyes, and her own fell.

"I wrote to no one; I was never much of a hand at letter writing," he said.

"But to me, Drake!" she whispered, with a pout. "I wanted to hear from you so badly! Just a line that would have given me an excuse for writing to you and telling you—explaining——"

He did not smile. He was not the man to remind a woman of her falseness, but something in his eyes made her falter and lower her own.

"I went away because I was tired of England," he said. "I came back because—well, because I was obliged."

"But you won't go away again?" she said, with genuine dismay in her voice and face. "I—I feel as if, as if it were my fault; as if—ah, Drake, have you not really forgiven me?"

Her eyes filled with tears, as genuine as her dismay—for think of the greatness of the prize for which she was playing—and Drake's heart was touched with a pity which was not wholly free from contempt.

"There shall be no such word as forgiveness between us, Luce," he said gravely. She caught at this, though it was but a straw, and her hand, from which she had taken her glove, stole over to his, and her eyes sought his appealingly.

But before he could take her hand—if he had intended doing so—Lady Angleford came up to them.

"Drake, they want you to lead the cotillon," she said.

He rose, but stood beside Luce.

"Directly Lady Luce has finished her supper, countess. Please don't hurry."

But Lady Luce sprang up at once.

"I have finished long ago; I was not hungry."

"Come, then," he said, and he offered her his arm, "Will you dance it with me?"

Her heart leaped.

"Yes. It will not be for the first time—Drake!" and as she entered the room with him, her heart thrilled with hope, and her blue eyes sparkled with a triumph which none could fail to notice.