"IT MAY BE FOR YEARS, AND IT MAY BE FOREVER."

—Byron.

Between eight and nine o'clock Grace had specified as the hour when her husband might call—and the French clock on the mantel of her private parlor at Willard's hotel chimed the half-hour sharply as he was ushered in by an obsequious waiter.

The room was entirely deserted—no, a child was toddling uncertainly across the floor, jingling in its baby hand that infantile source of delight an ivory rattler, with multitudinous silver bells attached thereto.

What discordance will not a mother endure and call it music for the baby's sake?

One searching glance, and Paul Winans had his child in his arms, clasped close to his hungry, aching heart.

His boy! his! Long months had flown away since he had looked on the face of his child, and now he held him close, his proud, bearded lip pressed to the fragrant lips of the babe, his breath coming thick and fast, his jealous, passionate heart heaving with deep emotion.

But the child started back, frightened at the bearded face of the stranger, and his low cry of fear struck reproachfully to his father's soul.

"A stranger to my own child," he muttered, bitterly. "Why, my baby, my baby, do you not know your own papa?"

"Mamma! papa!" repeated the child, and with a sunny, fearless smile, he stroked the noble brow that bent over him.

Grace had taught his baby lips to love the name of "papa," and now at the very sound his terror was removed, and he nestled closer in the arms that held him as though the very name were a synonym for everything that was sweet and gentle.

The unhappy mother entering at that moment with pride and reserve sitting regnant on her brow, reeled backward at that sight, with a quivering lip, and pale hands clasped above her wildly throbbing heart.

It was but for a moment. As he turned to the rustle of her silken robe, with their child clasped in one strong arm, she came forward slowly, very slowly, but standing before him at last with bowed head and hands clasped loosely together.

Captain Clendenon had said of her long before, that as much of an angel as was possible for mortal to possess was about her. I don't know about its being so much angel—I, who know women better than the captain did, think that the best of them have quite sufficient of the opposite attribute about them; but, at this moment, all of the angel within her was roused by the sight of her husband with their child in his arms.

A moment before her soul had been charged with desperate anger and rebellion—now her face wore a soft, sad tenderness, her lifted eyes the clear glory of a suppliant angel's.

"Oh, my husband," she breathed, in low, intense accents, "you have scorned all words of mine, turned away from me with my defense unheard—let the pure love of our innocent babe plead for its innocent mother!"

It was like the low plaint for forgiveness from a wayward child that comes sobbing home to its mother with its small fault to confess—and she was so child-like, so very young, so very wretched. A sharp thrill of agonized pity and self-reproach made his firm lip quiver as he looked down at her, fiery love and hate struggling in his soul. A wild impulse to clasp her to his bosom—to crush against his sore heart all that pale yet glowing beauty, for one moment rushed over him, to be sharply dispelled by the memory of his jealous vow, and he answered not, but gazed on her for speechless moments, marking with eyes that had hungered weary months for a sight of her, every separate charm that distinguished this fatally fairest of women.

And she was looking very lovely to-night. Her entire absence of color, while it robbed her of one charm, bestowed another. That glowing yet perfect pallor of impassioned melancholy—that dark brilliance of eyes that could, but would not weep—made her beauty more luring than before; for a sorrowful face always appeals most directly to the heart.

She wore a dress he had always admired—a dinner-dress of pale, creamy-hued silk, shading, as the lustrous folds fell together, into pale wild-rose tints. A fragrant, half-blown tea-rose blossomed against her whiter throat, among frills of snowy lace, and a slender cross of pearls and diamonds depended from a slight golden chain that swung almost to her slim, girlish waist; a bandeau of rare pearls clasped on her brow with a diamond star held her golden hair in place, and gave the last touch that was wanting to make her fairly royal in her loveliness.

This was his wife! In all his jealous love and hatred, that name thrilled his soul like a pÆan of triumph. All that beauty was his, his own; but—the undying thought thrilled him like a sword thrust—it might have been another's, had that other asked it first.

That other! he had seen her clinging to his arm that day, her magical eyes uplifted to his in deep emotion. In the anger that rose at the remembrance, he forgot the passionate pride and love that had shown on him from the gallery that morning—forgot everything but that later scene; and as it rushed vividly back to his mind, he put his hand to his face and groaned aloud.

And still she stood mute, moveless, with that hunted look deepening on her face, as no word or sign betrayed his answer.

"You will not even answer me!" she moaned, at last.

"It needs not his love to plead your cause, Grace," he answered, in heart-wrung accents. "While I thought that your only fault was in deceiving me before our marriage, my own love pleaded unceasingly for you, my every effort was directed to the destruction of my fiery jealousy and anger toward you. I was succeeding. God knows this is true. The message I sent you by Captain Clendenon was the outgrowth of that milder mood. In all probability I should soon have returned to you—glad to call you mine, even though I knew you to have once loved another. Once! My God! how little I knew of the dark reality! how little I dreamed of your deception until I saw you here to-day—with him!"

"Oh! not with him!" she cried, in indignant denial—"oh! not with him! I had met him but that moment, and by the merest accident. Paul, was I to blame for that?"

"Mamma, pretty mamma!" lisped the baby, reaching his arms to her in vague alarm at the papa who was grieving her so, and, with cold deference, he laid him in his mother's arms, as he answered:

"Not to blame for meeting him accidentally, of course, Grace; but you were to blame for stopping him, for clinging to him, for looking into his eyes as you did, knowing what you did of the feelings existing between himself and me—deeply to blame."

"I was frightened," she pleaded. "I did not think—it would have happened just the same had it been a stranger, and not Mr. Conway."

"Ah, no!" he sneered, beside himself with jealous passion. "I have learned, too late, that your marriage with me was one of ambition and pride. There was love in the look you gave him, Grace—such love as you have never accorded me."

He was walking excitedly up and down the floor, never even glancing at her. She sighed bitterly, pillowing her burning cheek against her child, as though to gather strength before she spoke again.

"You are mistaken; it was fright, alarm, foolish nervousness; not love, God knows; anything else but that! I do not know how to please you, my husband. You are fearfully, causelessly jealous—oh! what did you want me to do?"

"I did not want you to touch him; I did not want you to speak to him or notice him. I am jealous, Grace," stopping suddenly beside her, and gathering all her long fair ringlets into his hands, and lifting one bright tendril caressingly to his lips—"so jealous that I am almost angry with the very winds when they dare lift this treasured glory from your shoulders."

She trembled so violently that she was forced to put down the child on a cushion at her feet. As she turned, with a mute gesture, as if to throw herself into his arms, he dropped the golden mass from his hands and coldly turned away.

"I would like to know, madam," after a long pause, his voice ringing, clear, cold, steady, from the opposite side of the room, "why you chose to come to Washington at all—knowing it to be against my wishes—what object could you possibly have had, unless it were to see him?"

That cruel insult struck the warm fountain of tears, too oft repressed by the proud, loving young wife. Her face dropped in her hands, bright tears falling through her fingers; her voice came to him mournfully earnest through its repressed sobs and moans:

"Because, oh! because I wanted to see you, Paul, so much—oh, so much!—that I felt I could brave your blame—dare all your anger, but to look on your dear face once more! I hoped you would not see me. I did not know you could be so cruel and unjust to me, or I would have fought harder against the temptation to come."

Moving toward her, he half opened his arms, then dropped them again at his sides, with something like a moan.

"Oh, God, if I could only believe you!"

"And do you not?" she asked, slowly.

"I cannot. The miserable doubt that you have never loved me, the fear that your marriage with me arose from selfish considerations while your heart was in the keeping of one who valued it so little then, however much he may now—Gracie, with all these torturing doubts on my soul, I try to believe you, and—I cannot."

"Once for all," she says, still patiently, "let me tell you, whether you credit or not, Paul, that my love for Bruce Conway compared with my love for you was as moonlight unto sunlight, or as water unto wine. He was the ideal of my silly, inexperienced girlhood—nay, childhood—he never could have been the choice of my maturer years. You are all I can ask for in perfection of manliness, saving this unhappily jealous nature, and my whole heart is yours. I did not marry you for any selfish consideration, except that I loved you and wanted always to be near that strong, true, noble heart, sheltered by its warm affection. Paul, can you believe these things if I tell you so on my very knees?"

He flung himself away from her with a heart-wrung sigh.

"God help my jealous nature, I cannot!"

"And you will leave me again after this—indefinitely—or forever?" leaning her elbow on the low marble mantel, and looking at him with a sort of wistful wonder in her tear-wet eyes.

"I must. My vow is recorded—I cannot help myself—it must be fulfilled."

She smiled slightly, but with something in her smile that half maddened him. The tears were quite dry on her lashes, her cheeks were pink as rose-leaves, her bosom rose and fell more calmly. The smile that played on her lips was not "all angel" now. She had sued for the last time to her unjust lord.

"Since this is your decision," she answered, in calm tones, that belied her tortured heart, "would it not be as well to separate altogether? Would not your freedom be better insured by a complete divorce from one who has so deeply deceived you that it seems impossible to trust her again? I confess that it is irksome to me to live upon the splendors your wealth supplies while I am an exile and an alien from your heart. Once fairly divorced, and we could go away—my baby and I—and never trouble you again. I have worked for myself before; I am sure I can do it again."

He glared at her speechless, her cool, quiet words stinging him sharply, and widening the gulf between them. Before it was a turbulent stream; now a rushing river.

"And then you might be Bruce Conway's wife," he says, bitterly, at last, "and be happy ever after in his love. Is that what you mean, fair lady?"

"Oh, no, no, no! I should never marry again! I should not want to—nor dare to! Oh, Heaven, what has love ever brought me but agony?" with a despairing gesture of her clenched white hand.

"Ta, ta!" he says, with a light, sarcastic laugh. "You should not judge the future by the past. You 'may be happy yet,' as one of your songs prettily expresses it. Certainly, you may have a divorce if you wish, only,"—stooping to lift his boy in his arms—"in that case, you know, the law will give this dear little fellow into my sole care and keeping; though, of course, the blissful bride of Conway will not miss the child of the man she never loved."

If that last taunt struck home she did not betray it, save that she whitened to her lips as she slowly reiterated his words.

"The law would take my baby from me?"

"Yes, of course; that is the law of the land—do you still desire to have a divorce?"

"Oh, God, no! I never did, except for your sake. I felt myself to be a burden on your unwilling hands, on your unwilling heart, and I simply could not bear the thought. But my baby—don't take him from me, Paul! I have suffered until I thought I could bear no more, and that, oh! that would be death. He is all I have to love me now."

She caught her child from his arms and held him strained to her beating heart, feeling for the first time the awful agony of a mother's dread of losing her loved one. Her husband looked at her with no trace of his feelings written on his still face, and merely said:

"Do not fear; I shall not take him from you, unless in the event to which we have alluded. But I hope you will let me see him while he is so near me. When do you propose to leave Washington?"

"On the day after to-morrow. I only came yesterday."

"Ah! then I shall look for Norah, to-morrow—you have Norah with you?"

"Yes, of course."

"Then I shall expect Norah and my baby to call on me quite punctually, at ten to-morrow. I want to see all I can of the little fellow while he is here."

He penciled his address on a card, and laid it on the marble mantel. She watched him mutely as he turned toward her, thinking gravely to herself what a great, grand, kingly nature was marred by the jealous passion that laid waste the fair garden of this man's soul.

"Hear me now, Grace, and understand that what I wrote you in my parting note is still my wish. You will remain in our home with our little boy; command my banker for unlimited sums, and be as happy as you can. Do not, I beg of you, seek to see me again."

"No," she answers, slowly and proudly; "the next time, you will seek me!"

"Indeed, I hope so," he gravely answers, "so do not worry, and think as kindly of me as you can until we meet again."

"Until we meet again," she murmurs, under her breath.

"Until we meet again," he repeats, with a lingering look, and a deep, low bow.

She makes a pained, impatient gesture. He turns and goes out, humming with a cruel lightness that breaks her heart, the sad refrain of an old song: