“In another hour he will be here,” said Una, as she stood at her dressing-room window, and looked out upon the lawns and park of Hurst, where they stretched down toward the road.

“Another hour!” and at the thought, a smile—yet scarcely a smile, but a suitable light like a sun ray stole over her face.

The great poet Tennyson has, in one of his greatest poems, portrayed a girl who, all unconscious of the bitter moments awaiting her, decked herself in her brightest ribbons to receive her expected lover.

Bright ribbons are out of fashion now, but Una had paid some, for her, extraordinary attention to her toilet. Jack was never tired of calling her beautiful; had even gone so far as to speak of her loveliness, and it had raised no vanity in her; but this evening she felt she would like to appear really and truly beautiful in his eyes, so beautiful that even Lady Bell’s spirited face should be forgotten.

She had chosen the dress he liked best; had selected, with unusual care, a couple of flowers from the costly bouquet, which, morning and evening, was sent to her room from the hot-houses, and had decked herself in the locket and bracelet, and ring which Jack had given her.

Mrs. Davenant had made her many presents of jewelry, some of it costly, and even rare; but she would not wear anything but Jack’s own gifts tonight.

“He will come fresh from Lady Bell’s diamonds and sapphires, and would think little of mine, beautiful as they are; but he will like to see his locket and his bracelet, and will know that I love him best.”

Not once, but twice and thrice she had moved from the window to the glass, and looked into it. Not with any expression of pleased vanity, but rather with merciless criticism. For the first time, she would like to be as beautiful as Jack thought her. For the last few days she had been rather silent, and somewhat pale. Stephen’s cunning hints respecting Jack and Lady Bell had had their effect; but tonight’s expectation, and the nearness of Jack’s approach, had brought a faint rose-like tint to her cheeks, and her eyes shone with the subtle light of love and hope.

Mrs. Davenant looked up at her as she entered the drawing-room and smiled affectionately.

“How well you look tonight, dear,” she said, as she kissed her and drew her down beside her. “I’m inclined to believe Jack, when he says that you grow more beautiful than ever.”

“Hush,” said Una, but with a blush. “Jack says so many foolish things, dear.”

“If he never said anything more foolish than that he would be a wise man,” said Mrs. Davenant. “How long would he be now, dear?”

Una glanced at the clock.

“Just forty minutes,” she said simply.

Mrs. Davenant smiled and patted her hand.

“Counting the very minutes,” she murmured, gently. “What a thing love is! What would life be without it?”

“Death,” said Una, with a grave smile. “Worse than death.”

Mrs. Davenant sighed.

“Jack is a happy man,” she said. “I wonder whether Stephen will come down this evening?”

“Do you not know?” said Una, absently.

“No,” replied Mrs. Davenant. “I thought, perhaps, he might have told you.”

“Me!” said Una, with open eyes. “Oh, no. Why should he?”

“I didn’t know,” said Mrs. Davenant, quietly. “He tells you everything, I think.”

Una smiled.

“He is very good and kind,” she said, still a little absently. “Oh, very kind. No one could have taken more trouble to make me happy.”

“Yes, Stephen likes to see you happy,” said Mrs. Davenant, softly. “Poor Stephen!” and she sighed.

But Una heard neither the expression of pity nor the sigh. She had risen, and was moving about the room with that suppressed impatience which marks the one who wafts an expected joy.

Presently her quick ears heard the rattle of approaching wheels, and with a throbbing heart she looked at the clock. It wanted ten minutes to the appointed time for Jack’s arrival. With a quick flush of gratitude for his punctuality she moved to the door, and stole swiftly and softly to her own room, to regain composure. She heard the carriage pull up and go away to the stables—heard the hurried tread of footsteps in the marble hall—and then, with the faint flush grown into a full-blown blush, went downstairs and entered the drawing-room.

A sudden shock of disappointment chilled her. Stephen was standing before the fire warming his hands, but Jack was not there.

Stephen, in the glass, saw her enter, saw the sudden start and disappearance of the warm flush, and turned to meet her.

He looked tired, pale and worn, and the smile with which he met her was a singular one, one that would have been almost triumphant but for the expression of anxiety underlying it.

“I have got back, you see,” he said. “And are you quite well?”

Una murmured an inaudible response, and he went back to the fire and bent over it, warming his hands, his face grown, if anything, still paler.

“How beautiful she looks!” he thought. “How beautiful! Worth risking all for—all!”

“Won’t you go up and dress, Stephen?” said Mrs. Davenant. “There is a large fire in your room, and in Jack’s too; I have just been into both of them.”

“Yes, yes,” he said, not nervously, but with almost an absent air, and he left the room.

“Stephen looks tired,” said Mrs. Davenant. “I’m afraid he has had some business that has worried him. I can always tell by his face.”

“I am very sorry,” said Una, gently. “Yes, he did look tired and worried,” she added, but with her eyes on the clock. The hands went round to the hour—an hour beyond Jack’s time—and the butler announced dinner.

“Oh, we will wait a little while for Mr. Newcombe!” said Mrs. Davenant, but Una, with a little flush, murmured:

“No, do not, please; Mr. Davenant must want his dinner. Please do not wait;” and Mrs. Davenant, never able to stand out against anyone’s will, rose and put her arm in Una’s and they went into the dining-room. Stephen followed and sat down without making any remark on Jack’s absence; even when Mrs. Davenant said to the butler—“Let them be sure and keep the soup hot for Mr. Newcombe,” Stephen made no observation.

Dish after dish disappeared, and Una made a faint pretence at eating as usual, and joined in the conversation between Stephen and Mrs. Davenant, but her eyes were continually straying toward the clock, her ears straining for the sound of wheels or a galloping horse.

The dinner was a thing of the past, and the soup had been kept hot in vain; no Jack arrived. Gradually silence had fallen on the three, and when Mrs. Davenant rose it was with a sigh of loving sympathy with the troubled heart that ached so near her own.

“I cannot think what has kept him,” she said, when they were alone together in the drawing-room. “If it were anyone but Jack I should feel nervous—but even I cannot feel nervous about him. It is a plain, easy road from Earl’s Court, and he rides like a—a centaur.”

“Perhaps,” said Una, with her eyes fixed on the fire—“perhaps Lady Bell pressed him to stay to dinner, and he will be here presently.”

“That must be it,” said Mrs. Davenant, hopefully. “He will come in directly, making a most tremendous noise, and raging against whatever has been keeping him. Jack’s rages are dreadful while they last—they don’t last long!”

Una smiled, and listened.

Stephen entered—so noiselessly that she almost started—and stooped over his mother.

“There are some things in the breakfast room I brought from London, will you go and see to them?”

Mrs. Davenant rose instantly.

“Una, dear,” she said, “see to the tea, I will be back directly.”

Una nodded, and sat down at the gypsy table. Stephen stood beside the fire, one white hand stretched out to the blaze, his face turned toward her, his eyes watching her under their lowered lids. His heart beat nervously, the task before him seemed to overmaster him, and he shrank from it; with one hand he felt Jack’s letter, lying like an asp in his breast coat pocket.

“There is a cold wind tonight,” he said absently. “Jack said the wind had gone round this morning.”

“Jack,” said Una, raising her eyes, with a sudden flame of color in her face. “Have you seen him? You have been to Earl’s Court?”

Stephen frowned as if angry at making a slip.

“No—no,” he said with gentle hesitation. “No; I saw him in London. He is not at Earl’s Court.”

“Not at Earl’s Court!” said Una, with surprise. “How is that? Oh, he is not ill?”

And her breath came sharply.

Stephen turned to the fire, with knitted brow and compressed lip, and fidgeted with the poker.

“No,” he replied, slowly, and as if uncertain what to say—“he is not ill.”

“Then why did he not go?” asked Una.

Stephen remained silent; and still keeping her eyes fixed on his pale face, she rose and glided to his side.

“You have something to tell me,” she said, laying her hand on his arm, and speaking in a low, panting voice. “What is it? You will tell me, will you not? Has anything happened to Lady Bell? Is she at Earl’s Court?”

“Yes, she is at Earl’s Court,” he said, almost bitterly, “and she is quite well, I believe.”

“Then,” said Una, in a low voice, which she tried vainly to keep steady—“then it is something concerning Jack. Oh, why do you keep me in suspense?”

Her misery maddened him.

“I will tell you that he is quite well,” he said, almost sharply. “I left him in perfect health. I dined with him, and he made an excellent dinner.”

“You are angry with him! What has he done to make you angry?” she asked.

He raised her hand, and let it fall with a gesture of noble indignation.

“What has he done?” he repeated, as if to himself. “I can find no words to describe it adequately. My poor Una!”

And he turned to her, and laid his hand caressingly and pityingly on her arm.

Una, white and cold, was all unconscious of his touch.

Stephen drew her gently to a low seat, and stood over her, his hand resting with the same caressing pity on her arm.

“Yes, I must tell you,” he said, his voice low and gentle. “Would to Heaven I had been spared the task. Dear Una! you will be calm—I know your brave spirit and true, courageous heart. You will summon all your strength to bear the blow it is left for me to deal you—me who would lay down my life to spare you a moment’s pain!”

She scarcely heeded him. Her eyes, fixed on his face, were dilated with fear and dread, her lips white and apart with suspense.

“Tell me,” she murmured. “It is something to do with Jack?”

“It is,” he said. “It is.”

“He is dead!” she breathed.

And her eyes closed, as a shudder ran through her frame.

“Would to Heaven he had died, ere this night’s work,” said Stephen, in a low, fierce voice. “No; I have told you the truth. I left him well and—Heaven forgive him—happy.”

Una drew a long breath, and smiled wearily.

“What can you have to tell me about him that is so dreadful, if he is alive and happy?”

“He is alive, but he must be dead to you, dear Una,” said Stephen.

“Dead to me!” repeated Una, as if the words had no meaning for her. “Dead to me! I—I do not understand.”

Then, as he stood silent, with a look of gentle pity and sorrow on his pale face, a sharp expression of apprehension flashed across her face.

“Say that again,” she said. “You—you mean to tell me that he has left me?”

Stephen lowered his head.

Una was silent, while the clock ticked three, then three words came swiftly and sharply from her white lips:

“It is false!”

Stephen started.

“Would to Heaven it were,” he murmured.

“Gone! left me without a word,” said Una, with a smile of scorn. “Can you ask—can you expect me to believe it?”

“No,” said Stephen. “No one would believe such base and hideous treachery without proof.”

“Proof!” she echoed, faintly, and with sudden sinking of the heart. “Proof! Give it to me!”

Stephen drew the letter from his pocket slowly and reluctantly.

Una saw it and shivered.

“It is from him; give it to me,” she said.

And she held out her hand.

Stephen took it in his, and held it for a moment.

“Wait—for Heaven’s sake wait,” he murmured, with agitation. “I meant to break it to you—to explain——”

“Give it to me,” was all she said, and she shook his hand off impatiently.

“Take it,” said Stephen, with a tremor in his voice, “take it, and would to Heaven he had found some other messenger to bear it.”

Una took the letter and slowly but steadily carried it to another part of the room.

There she stood and looked at it as if she were waiting to gain strength to open it.

At last, after what seemed an eternity to Stephen, who was watching her in the glass, she broke open the envelope and read.

Not twice, but thrice she read it, as if she meant to engrave every line on her heart, then she thrust the letter in her bosom and came back to the fire.

Stephen turned, and with a low cry of alarm at sight of her altered face, moved toward her; but she put up her hand to keep him back.

Altered! Not only in face but in bravery. A minute ago she had been a gentle-hearted, suffering, tortured girl, now she was an injured, deserted woman.

“Thanks,” she said, and the words fell like ice from her lips. “You spoke of an explanation. Will you tell me all you know, Stephen?”

“Pray—not now,” he murmured. “Tomorrow——”

But she stopped him with a smile, awful to see in its utter despair and unnatural calmness.

“Now, please.”

“It—it is too easy of explanation,” said Stephen hoarsely. “He was tempted and he has fallen. He has bartered his honor for gold. Ask me no more.”

Una drew a long breath.

“It is needless,” she said. “You mean that he has left me, because I am poor, for Lady Earlsley, who can make him rich.”

Stephen turned away and sighed heavily.

Una looked at him for a moment, then sat down at the tea-table.

“You will have some tea?” she said calmly.

Stephen started and looked at her. She had taken up the cream ewer with an unfaltering hand. Great Heaven! could it be possible that she did not feel it—that she did not really love Jack after all! A wild feeling of exultation rose within his heart.

“Thank Heaven!” he murmured, “you can meet such treachery as it deserves—with scorn and contempt.”

She looked up at him with a strange smile on her cold, white face, and held out a tea-cup. But as he came near her, the cup dropped from her hand with a crash, and she fell back like one stricken unto death.

That same evening, Lady Bell stood in the drawing-room of Earl’s Court. She was richly dressed, more richly than was usual with her; upon her white neck and arms sparkled the diamond set which she wore only on the most special occasions. The room was full. Four or five of the country families had been dining with her, and the buzz of conversation and sound of music rose and fell together confusedly.

Surrounded, as usual, by a little circle of courtiers, she reigned, by the right of her beauty, her birth, and her wealth, a queen of society.

Brilliant and witty she, so to speak, kept her devoted adherents at bay, her beautiful face lit up with the smile which so many found so falsely fascinating, her eyes shining like the gems in her hair. Never had she appeared so beautiful, so irresistible.

Regarding her even most critically one would have assented to the proposition that certainly if any woman in the world was happy that night it was Lady Isabel Earlsley.

And yet beneath all her brilliance Lady Bell was hiding an aching heart. Half the country was there at her feet, and only one of all her invited guests absent, and he a poor, tireless, ne’er-do-well. But Lady Bell would willingly, joyfully have exchanged them all for that one man, for that scapegrace with the bold, handsome face and frank, fearless eyes.

Since mid-day she had been expecting him. Like Una, her eyes had wandered to the clock, and she had told the minutes over; but he had not come, and now, with that false gayety of despair, she was striving, fighting hard to forget him.

But her eyes and ears refused to obey her will, and were still watching and waiting, and suddenly her glance, wandering over her fan, saw a figure standing in the doorway.

It was not a man’s, it was that of Laura Treherne’s—Mary Burns.

Not one of them around her noticed any difference in her smile or guessed why she dismissed them so easily and naturally. She did not even march straight for the door, but making a circuit, gradually reached the hall.

Pale and calm and self-possessed as usual, the strange maid was waiting for her.

“Well!” said Lady Bell, and her voice was scarcely above a whisper. “Has—has he come?”

“No,” said Laura Treherne. “But though your ladyship told me only to let you know of Mr. Newcombe’s arrival, I thought it best to bring you this letter.”

Lady Bell almost snatched it from her hand.

“You did right,” she said.

With trembling hands she broke open the envelope, not noting that it opened easily as if it had been tampered with, and read the note.

“Dear Lady Bell—I am sorry I cannot come as arranged. I am in great trouble, and cannot leave London.

Lady Bell looked at the few lines for full a minute, then she pressed the letter to her lips. As she did so, she saw that the slight figure in its dark dress was still standing in front of her, and she started.

“Why are you waiting?” she said angrily.

Laura Treherne turned to go, but Lady Bell called to her.

“Wait. I beg your pardon. I am going to London tomorrow by the first train. Will you have everything ready?”

Laura Treherne bowed.

“Yes, my lady.”

“And—and—you need not sit up,” said Lady Bell.

“Thanks, my lady,” was the calm response. And the dim figure disappeared in the distance.