New York Dispatch

A THRILLING STORY
MISTAKE
BY THE AUTHOR OF
"AN UNNATURAL BONDAGE"
"DORA THORNE"
ETC.
CHAPTER I.
"I SHALL CONQUER ONLY TO BECOME A SLAVE."
The moon shone brightly above a bank of clouds; the sky was filled with masses of silvery vapor which looked as though all the light of the moon was centered on them. A network of frosted silver lay over the fields and hedges, over the shrubs and evergreens; it seemed in some vague way to mingle with the moonlight, and produced a radiance that was strangely beautiful. Great icicles hung from the bare branches of the trees and from the eaves of the houses; a cold north wind was blowing—a wind that chilled everything it touched.
All England lay under the smiles of this Christmas moon; but one of the fairest spots it shone upon was Dynewell Hall, the seat of Lord Lynmarche, one of the most ancient peers in the country. Lord Lynmarche was a man with a mania. That mania was the antiquity of his family. There are many who boast of their ancestors having come over to England with William the Conqueror. Lord Lynmarche had certain contempt for them. He came of a Saxon race, and he would not have exchanged his Saxon title for all the honors that all the Normans could boast. William the Conqueror had found the Lynmarches at Dynewell, and there they had remained. A Lynmarche had helped King Alfred in the days of the Danish invasion—a Lynmarche had fought like a lion by King Harold's side until the Norman laid him low.
In other families the barrier had been completely broken down—Norman and Saxon had become one; they had married and intermarried until the characteristics of the different races had been lost. But it had never been so with the Lynmarches. They had preserved the old Saxon customs—they had preserved, as far as possible, the habits and manners of their Saxon forefathers. It was certainly strange that they had preserved the Saxon type of feature almost exclusively; it was but seldom that dark eyes or dark hair had belonged to the Lynmarches—it was but seldom that they had been anything but tall, blonde, dignified, and fair.
All the rulers of Dynewell had been proud of this peculiarity—none more so than the present Ulric, Lord Lynmarche; with him it amounted to a mania. He had married Lady Etheldrida, a distant relative, and he had one daughter, to whom he gave the name of Gwendoline. Call anything Saxon, and Lord Lynmarche liked it—call it Norman, and it found no favor in his eyes. And this weakness of his was so well known that people practiced on it and made him a victim to it.
On this Christmas Eve Lord Lynmarche was holding high revels at Dynewell. It was Christmas after the old English fashion, with the warmest and heartiest of welcomes—a Christmas that made old hearts young, and the young rejoice.
Standing in the moonlight, there could have been no fairer type of an English home than Dynewell—an ancient, picturesque mass of building, all of gray-stone, with square turrets and tall towers. The moonbeams fell lovingly upon it. There was a large porch, which was approached by a long flight of white marble steps; terrace after terrace sloped to the magnificent grounds below. Lynmarche had every beauty. The gardens that surrounded it were unique in their loveliness; the park was of vast extent, well wooded, and picturesque. At one side of it a pine-wood led to the sea, where the waves beat restlessly on the yellow sands, and the white foam spread in great sheets over the beach.
On this Christmas Eve the whole house seemed to smile. A ruddy glow of light streamed from the windows; and when the great hall door was opened there was a rush of warm perfumed air, an aromatic odor of evergreens, fragrance from countless costly flowers. The hall was lined with verdure; the scarlet berries of the holly seemed to flash smiles; the green laurel, the dark fir, and the laurustinus with its pale white flower were placed in great picturesque masses. But one form of greeting was to be heard, and that was "A Merry Christmas"—words that sounded like a song that would never grow old. After ascending the grand staircase, the door of the drawing-room was opened. It was merry Christmas there. Costly exotics were mingled with the holly and laurel; a huge Yule-log burned on the hearth; a flood of light fell on the fair faces and shining jewels of the ladies.
There was Lord Lynmarche, the descendant of an old Saxon stock, a tall, handsome, elderly man, whose fine face and thin white hair showed so plainly the progress of years. He sat near the fire—for old age, he said, was chilly. His visitors were dispersed in different groups round the room; some were at the piano, some were playing at chess, some at cards—groups of pretty girls with their attendant lovers, and of fair-faced matrons.
The old lord looked round with a happy smile—the scene was one he loved, one that cheered him, and made the blood course through his veins. He looked longest and most lovingly on a group that must have struck even the most careless beholder with its beauty.
The centre of it was a Saxon princess—if ever there was one. Berengaria of the golden hair...
NEW YORK DISPATCH. APRIL 6. 1879.
see the reality, I am half dazzled, half con-
"On Christmas Day. When her heart is filled
with sweet thoug
would have grown pale before the tall, beauti-
ful girl with hair of dead gold, and a face fair as
the glow of a lily. blue eyes with long black
lashes, and lips like the petals of a rose-Lady
Gwendoline Lynmarche, the heiress of Dyne-
well, the fairest, proudest, and most beautiful
girl in England—" fair, proud, and cold," it was
said; but she did not look cold now, as Sir
Lancelot Elmere bent over her, and whispered
something warmer than Christmas greeting in-
to her ear.
From the crown of her shapely, queenly
head down to the little white satin slipper that
might have been Cinderella's she was perfec-
tion. Her complexion was fair, with a faint
glow like the light of the sun on a lily-leaf.
with the daintiest, loveliest bloom, which deep-
ened and faded away; the dead-gold hair was
artistically arranged, and was crowned by a
tiara of diamonds; the dress was low, cut
square, after the old Venetian fashion, showing
a white neck and polished shoulders which
might have belonged to Psyche. Her dress, of
rich white silk, left the rounded arms, clasped
by bracelets of costly gems, bare almost to the
dimpled shoulders. Her hands were fine and
white, with tapering pink fingers—they were
heavy with rings—Lord Lynmarche would make
her wear them—and in these white, jeweled
hands she carried a bouquet of beautiful fra-
grant flowers. it was of them Sir Lancelot was
speaking.
They were well matched, for Sir Lancelot was
tall and stately. with a handsome face. proud
even to haughtiness, and gray eyes that were
like deep well-springs of love and truth-dark
straight brows, which had a habit of frowning
when he was not well pleased—dark, clustering
hair. and a beautiful mouth that was shaded
with a dark mustache.
Looking at Sir Lancelot, it could be discerned
at once that he was an aristocrat, and that he
was proud. But all pride had vanished now.
Love, the great conqueror, had reduced him
to a state of abject slavery; but, say what he
would, pray as he would, he could not win any
especially kind word from Lady Gwendoline.
· l'
"I think it cruel of you," he said, at last-
"really cruel. You have given Christmas pres-
ents to every one in the house, but nothing to
me. I ask you for one, and you promise it.
You tell me to choose what I will have, and I
choose one affectionate word from you; this you
refuse to speak. Is it fair?"
She played carelessly with the leaves of her
flowers, and then looked up at him with a
smile.
"You are terribly in earnest, Sir Lancelot,"
she said
"In earnest! That indeed I am. Why, I
live for this one purpose! My life holds no
other—it is concentrated on it! I have no life
outside of it. A man is in earnest when he
speaks so."
"It is one of your characteristics," she ob-
served, "to be in earnest over everything, no
matter how trifling. If I asked you this min-
ute to go and choose for me a flower or a book,
it would be done as though life just then were
worthy of naught else. It is rather a terrible
quality."
"Yet you like it, I am sure," he rejoined.
"Light, graceful, airy fancies and manners are
all very well, but I like a man, or woman either,
who having something to do, does it promptly.
and does it well."
"I suppose it is best," she said, musingly. He
resumed:
"Be in earnest for one minute yourself, Lady
Gwendoline; give me the present you promised
one affectionate word."
The beautiful face flushed, and the jeweled
fingers played more carelessly with the flowers.
"What word do you want, Sir Lancelot?"
"Any that you will deign to speak—one that
you have never uttered to any one else yet-
one that you would no more give to any of
your crowd of adorers than you would give
your diamond tiara to a street beggar. Give
me a word that you will never speak to any one
else.."
She gave a little sigh, as though she were
half frightened.
"I have never uttered an affectionate word
to any one except my father," she confessed,
hesitatingly.
"It must be different from the words you
give to him," he said.
She drew back so suddenly that the light in
her jewels seemed to flash like lightning over
her.
"You ask me, Sir Lancelot, for that which I
cannot grant," she returned.
There came such an expression of pain on his
face that she relented.
"I wish you a very happy Christmas," she
added, gently.
"Its happiness or its misery, Lady Gwendo-
line, will depend upon you—and you know it,"
he observed. "You will deal out life or death
to me. With those beautiful lips be merciful
let it be life, and let the life begin with the one
word I have asked for."
She looked up into the handsome face into
the pleading passionate eyes; her breath seemed
to come and go quickly.
"I cannot," she murmured.
"I like you too
well to tease you, Sir Lancelot. I mean just
what I say."
i . i
"And I mean what I say. Lady Gwendoline
I shall follow you like a shadow until I have
won the word I long to hear from you."
"That is throwing down the gauntlet" she
said, quietly.
Yes, and it will be war between us until I
am the conqueror; but, remember, Lady Gwen-
doline. I shall conquer only to become a slave.'
"You speak in metaphor," she said, walking
away from him.
But he followed her. Sir Lancelot had been
in earnest all his life, but never so terribly as
now.
. ":s
(! :4- t:r, : ss::
CHAPTER II
"YOU ARE COLD, CRUEL AND PROUD."
Lord Lynmarche sat at the head of the table.
A grand banquet on Christmas Eve was an in-
stitution with him, and he never failed to pre-
side over it. There was something almost pa-
thetic in the old man's face as he looked round
on the grand old dining-hall, with its roof of
grained oak and its Christmas decorations on
the long table, graced by old silver that had
served the family for long generations—on the
circle of happy faces.
His eyes filled with tears. New fashions were
nothing to him. The grand Saxon heart beat
in the worn frame. He took a glass of wine,
rich of hue, rare of bouquet, and he pledged
his guests. He prayed Heaven to bless them,
and keep the sunshine in their hearts and
faces. He wished them a merry Christmas,
and hoped the time would never come when
Christmas with its holly and its kindliness
might be wearisome to them.
And then the banquet began. When it was
nearly over, the old lord rose once more. He
had another toast they must pardon his pro-
posing it, but he was among his friends, among
those whom he loved and who loved him. His
toast was—his daughter, the crown of his life,
the centre of all his hopes, the object of his
dearest love,
Her face flushed as she listened; there was a
contraction as of pain round the perfect lips.
Sir Lancelot could not account for the anxious,
uneasy expression that came over her fair
young face, nor could he tell why it affected
him as it did. It was not a look of modesty
that shrank from praise, but rather of pained
self-depreciation. More than once that evening
Sir Lancelot found himself thinking of that look.
and wondering over it.
When the grand banquet was over, and the
guests had returned to the drawing-room,
some one told, with great spirit and anima-
tion, a ghost story, and then the conversation
turned upon ghosts and weird, wild fancies. Sir
Lancelot remained by Lady Gwendoline's side;
she looked up at him with a smile.
"I am rather a strange kind of being my-
self," she said. "I am not quite like others, I
think,
I am sure of it," he replied, laughingly;
"but not in the sense you mean."
"Perhaps you will laugh at me, Sir Lancelot
but I have really, in some measure, the gift of
second-sight. Do not think it is all supersti-
tion. I have seen, as it were in my own mind,
events that have afterward come to pass.
That has happened to me several times. Do
you know what my old nurse says is the rea-
son?
"No, I do not," he replied, smiling at the
grave, lovely face.
"It is because I was born at twelve o'clock on
All-Hallows night, and the old legend is that a
person born then has the gift of second-sight.
I often have forebodings of events about to
happen. Last night I had a strange dream."
There was a far-off look in her eyes as she
spoke—an absent expression on her face.
"A strange dream," she repeated. "And
all this day—though it has been a happy day,
and Christmas Eve—I have been thinking of
it. The face I saw in it has haunted me ever
since."
"Tell me what your dream was, Lady Gwen-
doline."
"I dreamed that, walking along some long,
dim corridor, filled with a strange gray light, I
saw a woman. She was tall and young, and
she had hair of dead gold, somewhat like my
own. Her face was very pale. I should recog-
nize her face if I saw it among a thousand
others. She had wistful gray eyes; it was a
sad, strange kind of beauty, and cold and stony.
As I passed her, I looked at her, and she looked
at me; our eyes met, and the terrible expression
of hers sent a thrill of horror through me. She
spoke to me, raising her hand with a warning
gesture. 'All the misery of your life will come to
you through me,' she said, and then she seemed
to vanish.
What can such a dream mean, Sir
Lancelot?"
"I cannot tell," he replied, gravely; "there
is no accounting for dreams. Do you know such
a woman? Have you ever seen any one like
her—this girl with the dead gold hair and terri-
ble eyes?"
"No,"
answered Lady Gwendoline; "I have
never seen such a face; it was quite new to
me."
"Have you any female enemy?" he asked.
"Not one," replied Lady Gwendoline, smiling
e. Perhaps I am foolish to remember the dream
but it has haunted me—I feel that I shall again
see the same stony face with its terrible look."
"I shall be quite anxious about you," he
said; "you have given me a share of your fore-
boding. Yet what is a dream? And what
harm could happen to you, so beloved, so cared
for, so worshipped? There is a barrier sur-
rounding you which cuts you off in a measure
from this world of danger and sorrow."
"You are right," she returned, thoughtfully,
and I am foolish. I hope the next dream
that haunts me will be a pleasant one." And
then she stopped abruptly, for there was a
sound of music. "It is the Waits," she said;
let us listen to them.
Thay walked together to one of the large windows and looked out. The moon shone bright-
ly, and before the grand entrance stood the lit-
tle band of musicians.
Lady Gwendoline's face grew more lovely
with the light that came into it; Sir Lancelot's
softened, and grew more tender as he watched
her. Perhaps the quaint sweet Christmas mu-
sic had in some measure taken her out of her-
self. She seemed for the time to have lost all
her shyness and timidity with him: she looked
up at him with the eagerness of a child.
"I think," she remarked, "that if I were in
the greatest trouble, Sir Lancelot, Christmas
would bring me peace; there would be no
wrongs so great or so cruel that I could not
forgive them."
It was another of those unconsciously pro-
phetic expressions that she used at times. Sir
Lancelot smiled at it.
"You will never have a wrong to forgive," he
said, quietly.
"Who could, who would wrong
you?'
No one, I hope; but, if ever such a thing
happened, I could not keep a bitter memory in
my heart during Christmastide. Listen, Sir
Lancelot."
They both bent forward to listen to the sim-
ple words of the Christmas carol; they brought
with them no warning of the clouds that were
gathering and the fears that were to follow.
Presently the music ceased, and the beautiful
face lost its gravity. Sir Lancelot watched it
as the intense, earnest expression died away.
"How lovely the night is!" he said, bending
over her. "When one is happy, everything
looks beautiful," he whispered. "Are you hap-
py, Lady Gwendoline? Nay, you shall not turn
from me, and pretend that you do not under-
stand me. Standing here with you is the great-
est happiness I could have. I would not change
it for any other. I would not give up these few
precious minutes to gain a kingdom. Are you
happy too? Tell me."
He caught her hand in his own—he bent over
her—and she shrunk from the passionate love
that shone in his face.
"Everyone is happy at Christmas," she re-
plied, evasively.
"Ah, Lady Gwendoline, you are proud and
cold. If you saw me dying of burning thirst
you would give me water: if you saw me dying
from starvation, you would give me bread; and
yet, when I tell you that my whole soul longs
for one endearing word from your lips, you will
not speak it. You are cold, cruel, and proud.
I had better have lavished the whole love of my
life on a marble statue.
Her face flushed at the passionate words, the
flowers trembled in her hand.
"I think," he went on, "that sweet, and fair,
and graceful, and gracious though women are,
they delight in cruelty. I could not torture the
meanest object in creation as you torture me."
"I do not mean to torture you," she said,
half hesitatingly.
Hark!" broke in Sir Lancelot. "That is
twelve o'clock striking; now it is Christmas
Day."
He held the white, jeweled hand in his own,
he drew the beautiful figure nearer to him.
"You must give me the one word I have
prayed for. Say, 'A merry Christmas, Lance,
dear.'"
She half hesitated, but the pleading eyes, the
handsome face, the passionate love that sub-
dued her were irresistible.
"I wish you a happy Christmas, Lance," she
said.
i "I grow bold with your kindness," he said
kissing the little hand.
She drew it from him with a sudden cry, and
to him it seemed that the cry was one of unutterable pain.
"You must not do that again," she told him.
"Not until next Christmas," he supplemented.
"Well, I would cheerfully wait twelve months
for the happiness of kissing that sweet white
hand again.
She saw the half-triumphant expression in
his dark eyes, and she owned to herself that it
was hard to be angry with him.
i z-y "I
146:
CHAPTER III.
1z
-ix
"I MUST BE ON MY GUARD," : Lady Gwendoline Lynmarche had passed one
season in London, and, if she had not been one
of the most sensible of girls, the flattery and
homage that surrounded her might have spoiled
her. Fair hair was fashionable, blonde beau-
ties were in the ascendant, but the great world
had seen nothing so fair as this daughter of a
grand Saxon race. Her fair face and dead-gold
hair, her graceful figure and white hands, so
perfect in symmetry, turned all heads. She was
the queen of the season, and she had no rival
near her throne. She was the most beautiful
and the most popular of belles. There was the
Gwendoline bonnet and the Gwendoline robe,
the Gwendoline chair and the Gwendoline map-
tle: whatever she wore or patronized became
the rage; wherever she went others followed, to
have the pleasure of looking at her. Her por-
trait had been painted by the prince of court
painters, and was said to be the finest work of
art in the Academy exhibition. Crowds gazed
on the lovely face framed in dead-gold hair. All
that the world could give of homage and flattery
and adulation was hers,
And yet, with this same brilliant world at her
feet, there were some who said she did not look
happy. Youth was not yet twenty—
beautiful with a beauty few women ever pos-
sessed, the wealthy heiress of a wealthy race,
with a father who not only worshiped and in-
dulged her, but had never in his life denied her
any wish—what more could she desire? Yet
there were many who said that she was not hap-
py; that, despite its calm, fair loveliness and
high-bred repose, her face was anxious—that
she had a habit of looking round, half fright-
ened, at any sudden entrance, at the unexpected
sound of footsteps, at the sound of a strange
voice. She would turn in a strange, half fright-
ened fashion, as though dreading to see some
one. She did this so often that people noticed
it at last.
And then the dainty bloom in her face came
and went so suddenly. When talking eagerly,
happily, a chance word would drive the light
and animation from her face, a far-off dreamy
look would come into her eyes, and only after a
time would she rouse herself, when it was like
one waking from a painful dream.
There were times even when she seemed so
restless, so unlike herself, that Lord Lynmarche
grew anxious, and insisted upon her taking ad-
vice. Doctors looked gravely at her, and said
something about her being over-tired and need-
ing rest. There was nothing the matter that
they could detect. Lord Lynmarche said that,
when the London season had ended, instead of
going to Brighton or to Ryde, they would go to
Dynewell, and there, the doctors assured him,
with a courtly bow, Lady Gwendoline would soon
be herself again.
She had lovers and admirers innumerable.
this proud young beauty, but she had never
smiled on any of them. The world would have
been delighted if it could but have found her to
be the heroine of a love story, but there was
not the least whisper of anything of the kind.
The Earl of Boynford had made her an offer.
which she had refused; frightened and warned
by his fate, other lovers stood at a respectful
distance. She moved among them with proud,
serene, unruffled grace. She accepted all com-
pliments and flattery, all homage and attention,
in the same fashion, with the same half-veiled
graceful indifference; no man could boast to
himself that she had given him a smile more
encouraging or more kind than she had given
another.
But there was one lover who persevered in
spite of rebuffs, and that was Sir Lancelot El-
mere. She might be cold and proud as she
would, she might treat him with indifference or
with contempt—it was all the same to him; he
loved her, and he had vowed to himself that he
would win her.
He had seen her portrait at the Academy be-
fore he had seen herself; he caught a glimpse of
the face so like the face of a Saxon queen, and
of the dead-gold hair, and then he crossed the
room to look more closely at the picture. Its
loveliness fascinated him; he looked at it long
and lingeringly.
"Is that some artist's dream," he wondered,
"or is it the portrait of a living woman?"
He turned to his catalogue—"No. 267. Lady
Gwendoline Lynmarche."
Then he remembered to have heard of her, of
her beauty and grace, and he determined to ob-
tain an introduction to her. All day the face of
that portrait was with him—the beautiful, ten-
der eyes, the proud, sweet lips, and the won-
drous hair of dead gold. More than once he
tried to put away the memory, but he could not
—it haunted him.
"Surely," he said to himself, with a smile,
"I who have been indifferent to the charms
and fascinations of some of the finest women in
England surely I am not in love with a pic-
ture."
That same night he saw her at the opera.
His heart beat, his pulses thrilled, his whole
heart went out to her.
"She and no other," he said to himself
"She looks like Queen Guinevere at the tour-
namet, only I believe King Arthur's wife was
not half so fair."
Lady Gwendoline wore a dress of white silk
with a knot of violets at her breast and a cir-
cket of pearls in her golden hair. He watched
her intently, and he loved her from that mo-
ment with a love that would end only with his
life—a love that never grew less or cold, al-
though once he believed that it was changed
into burning hate.
As he looked at her there came to him
sense of a completed life.
"Is she, I wonder," he said, "the other half
of my own soul?"
And then he found means to procure an in-
troduction to her. Lord Lynmarche was with
his daughter, and he had met Sir Lancelot be-
fore. He was delighted to renew the acquaint-
ance. He welcomed the young baronet warm-
ly, and smiled to himself a quiet smile when he
saw how completely Lady Gwendoline absorbed
his attention.
There were few words spoken when these
two, who were to be so much to each other,
were introduced. Sir Lancelot murmured
something about the pleasure, and Lady Gwen-
doline bowed. There was a slight flush on her
face and a light in her eyes. Sir Lancelot sat
down by her side.
They forgot the whole world. There was the
brilliant opera-house, with its circle of beauti-
ful women—there was the stage, with its won-
drous magic; but these two, who had looked
into each other's eyes, had lost themselves
they neither saw nor heard. It was the first
delicious draught of the cup that had death in
its dregs.
"I do not consider that I am speaking to a
stranger," said Sir Lancelot—"I feel rather as
though I had known you all my life; and the
reason is because this morning—it seems an
age since then—I saw your portrait at the
Academy. I have never had your face out of
my mind for one moment since, and, now that
1 go see the reality, I am half dazzled, half
con-
: fasod, I-md
The honest, handsome face flushed with emo-
tion; the honest, noble heart beat as it had
never done before. Her white eyelids drooped
there was in her manner, then as afterward,
something that he could not understand. She
was not displeased at his admiration, but ra-
ther frightened at it.
That night Lady Gwendoline was kinder to
him than she was afterward. She was never
again so frank, so cordial, so winsome. She
had talked to him, gayly, frankly, without re-
serve, herself quite unconscious of the glamour
that was falling over her. Lord Lynmarche,
with a smile, stood by while Sir Lancelot took
her to the carriage. He was even kind enough
to linger, good-naturedly, talking to some
friend, while Sir Lancelot stood for five happy
minutes conversing with Lady Gwendoline.
The wind was cool. He looked at the light
opera cloak.
"Are you sure you are warm
enough?" he
asked.
It was such a simple question, yet there was
something in the tone which spoke volumes.
"Yes," she replied, drawing the cloak round
her shoulders, "I am warm enough. Good
night, Sir Lancelot."
She held out her hand, and he kept it for one
half minute in his own.
"May I say just one word to you, Lady
Gwendoline? To-night has been the happiest
time of my life—nay, my life dates from this
hour. I have not lived before."
In the faint light he saw the color deepen on
her face, and he knew she was not angry with
him.
"Lady Gwendoline, I know that it is pre-
sumptuous of me, but I have been so happy.
my happiness has driven all prudence away.
give me the violets you have been wearing. Do
not refuse me."
Perhaps it was that she did not stop to think.
The next minute he stood alone with the vio-
lets in his hand, and Lady Gwendoline was
thinking over what she had done.
"I ought not have given them to him," she
thought. "When I see him again, I must be
on my guard.'
CHAPTER IV.
"WHY COULD HE NOT WIN HER?"
If thinking of her new friend during half the
night, and longing for the time when she
should see him again, was "being on her
guard," then indeed was Lady Gwendoline pru-
dent enough.
Lord Lynmarche spoke of Sir Lancelot on the
following day, saying how pleased he was to re-
new his acquaintance. He had a fashion of
speaking his mind very plainly. He was quick
to say whom he liked and whom he did not like,
and he could not praise Sir Lancelot sufficiently.
Lady Gwendoline listened with a quick beat-
ing of her heart. It was so pleasant to hear him
praised, although she had decided that she
must be on her guard; it was pleasant to
hear all his good qualities discussed, though
these same qualities could never be any con-
cern of hers.
The next time they met was at Lady Hol-
brook's ball. Lady Gwendoline was looking
very beautiful; her dress of white and gold
suited her fair blonde loveliness, and the dia-
monds that gleamed in her hair, and circled
her white throat, added a radiance to her grand
beauty. She had half expected to see Sir Lance-
lot there, and had promised herself to be very
cautious. But there was no caution in her
thrill of delight, nor in the flush that rose to
her face. Presently he stood before her, hold-
ing out his hand.
She was changed to him; he saw that at once.
Her eyes drooped before his—she hid most
carefully the light of welcome—her words were
cold, her manner was even colder. He liked
her better so than if she had appeared delighted
to see him. There must, despite her caution,
have been something that gave him a
slight hope, for throughout the evening he lin-
gered by her side; he danced with her, and
with none else, and very soon the rumor began
to circulate that Sir Lancelot Elmere, the
wealthiest baronet in England, was fascinated
by Lady Gwendoline Lynmarche.
It was nothing unusual—she had had so many
lovers and admirers. But there was something
different in her manner to him. The cool, pol-
ished, graceful indifference with which she re-
ceived all other homage had given place to a
shy, pretty avoidance of him. He was not the
only one who had noticed it.
Toward the close of the evening, when the
rooms had grown warm, Sir Lancelot persuaded
Lady Gwendoline to walk through the drawing-
room, and rest in the cool, fragrant conserva-
tory.
She declined at first, saying hurriedly that
she was not tired, that she did not require
rest; but Sir Lancelot had a certain quiet way
of influencing people that it was hard to re-
sist. When his desire was accomplished, when
the white, jeweled hand rested on his arm, and
the fair, proud face smiled at him, he said,
grave:
"Lady Gwendoline, have I displeased you?
Tell me frankly."
"No," she replied, "you have not."
: tAt
"Then will you tell me why you have changed
to me? When I left you three evenings since,
your smile made Heaven for me; you were
kind and gentle and gracious; you talked to
me, you laughed with me. Now you are cold
and silent, grave and proud. What have I done
that you should change so completely toward
me?"
"You have done nothing," she confessed.
"Then is such treatment fair? Why will
you not be frank and kind as you were at
first?"
She was tempted to say, honestly, "Because
I must be on my guard," but she did not yield
to the impulse.
"I do not think it is possible," she replied,
"to renew an intimacy at the exact point where
it has been broken off. It would be like tying
a broken thread without a knot—and that is not
possible."
"Since the moment I left you I have thought
of nothing but the happiness of seeing you
again," he said;
"and now you have made me
very unhappy."
"I did not intend to do so," she acknowledged, gently, and he saw an expression of half-
weary pain come over her face.
"Did you think I was too presumptuous, Lady
Gwendoline? Were you angry with me because
I asked you for those flowers?"
"Not at all," she replied. "I should not have
given them if I had thought you presumptuous.
I do not see that I am unkind. I have danced
with you—I am here talking to you. I cannot
see why you blame me."
"Your manner is quite changed; there is
something of restraint about it that I do not
understand. But, Lady Gwendoline, you will
not frighten me; I have set myself a task, and
I will accomplish it."
But he found it difficult. He could not even
to himself define the change; it was like a shadow
that had fallen between them—a thin, impalpa-
ble shadow; he could not penetrate it, he could
not remove it. She was never the same to him
after their first interview. Still he was not
daunted; she was so fair that she was worth
any toil in winning, and he loved her with so
deep and passionate a love that time and trouble
were as nothing to him.
He could not conceal one thing from himself.
She avoided him—he saw it plainly—yet it did
not quite discourage him.
"The fact that she avoids me," he said to
himself, "is proof sufficient that she thinks of
me.
So, when she intended to deprive him of all
hope, he saw gleams of it. But she was not
always cold and reserved with him. There
were times when, meeting her suddenly, he
broke down the barrier of reserve, and she was
her own bright self—when he gave her no time
to think, but seemed to seize her and carry her
along by the mere force of his will. Those
happy hours were cheaply purchased by whole
weeks of longing and pain.
Then he began to ask himself why he could
not win her, and in what he failed. She loved
no one else. He watched her keenly. That
which she refused to him she gave to no others.
Why could he not win her? He asked Lord
Lynmarche for his consent, and his lordship
smiled as he gave it.
But, despite Lord Lynmarche's approval, Sir
Lancelot made slow progress; he found great
difficulties, and the problem that he could never
solve was, "Why could he not win her?" He
knew that his rank and position were high,
high enough to satisfy even the most ambitious;
he knew that he was wealthy; and he knew,
above all, that he loved her with such an inten-
sity of love that it was impossible it should win
no return.
Still days and weeks passed, and he was com-
pelled to own that he made no progress. If one
day the fair, proud face smiled on him, if it
flushed warmly, and a light like the light of
love shone in her eyes, the next it was quite
different—she was colder, prouder, and haught-
her than ever.
"What I gain one day I lose the next," he
confessed to himself; "but I shall win you yet,
my fair, proud love," he exclaimed, with re-
newed determination—"I will win you or die
for you!"
The London season came to an end, and then
thinking that his daughter looked pale and
thoughtful, Lord Lynmarche arranged that
they should spend the next few months in quiet
at home.
Sir Lancelot was not forgotten; he had been
several times to Dynewell, and at Christmas
he was a welcome guest. Lord Lynmarche
was pleased to see him. He could not tell
whether Lady Gwendoline was. He thought
that the white hand trembled in his own, that
the beautiful lips quivered; but the face was
calm and untroubled.
"I would rather you hated me with a terri-
ble hatred than be treated with indifference,"
he said to her, in the passionate anguish of his
disappointment. "I might conquer that. I
cannot conquer indifference.
She drew back surprised.
"You should not say such things to me, Sir
Lancelot.
But I must say them. It is Christmas time
now, and the whole world is happy. Do you
know why I am here, sweet? Nay, you shall
not turn from me because I use that word.
Sweet, do you know why I am here? I have come
to beat down the barrier that your coldness and
your pride have raised between us. I have
come to clear away the shadow, and to ask you
to let the full sun of hope and of love shine on
me."
She turned abruptly from him, but he would
not be daunted.
"It is Christmastide," he thought; "merry
Christmastide; surely she will be kind now.
Every one is happy—she will not make me
miserable."
Why could he not win her? He could not
tell; but he vowed to himself that the Christ-
mas sun should not set until he knew.
."On Christmas Day, when her heart is filled
with sweet thoughts and memories, I will ask
her to be my wife," said Lancelot to himself;
and he intended to keep his word.
CHAPTER
I OFFER YOU THE TRUEST LOVE MAN EVER HAD
FOR WOMAN.
Christmas Day had surely never dawned
more fairly. The sun shone brightly on the
white earth; it gleamed in the icicles that
hung from the eaves and glistened in the hoar-
frost.
While he lives Sir Lancelot will remember the
walk through the woods on that Christmas
morning. Some of the guests had preferred
driving to church, others had remained at home,
but Lady Gwendoline, who had all a poet's love
of nature, proposed a walk through the woods.
Overhead was the blue Winter sky; the great
trees stretched out their bare brown branches;
underfoot the earth was crisp, white, and hard;
ever and anon, from among the bare trees,
gleamed out the splendor of an evergreen—a
holly tree with crimson berries, or a laurel with
shining leaves.
It was a fair, beautiful scene on which the
sun shone. Most of the young people preferred
to walk, and, as they came to the end of the
woods, near the pretty town of Dynewald, they
heard the chiming of the Christmas bells—a
glad, jubilant sound.
Sir Lancelot will never forget the old gray
church, with its windows of rich stained glass,
its sculptured monuments, and grand old spire.
He will never forget the music of the Christmas
anthem, or the eloquent words of the preacher
—they were all woven into one dream, and that
dream filled his life.
He said to himself that as he returned he
would ask the question on which the whole fu-
ture happiness of his life depended. But Lady
Gwendoline seemed to have a prevision of what
was coming. He could get no place by her
side. She talked to every one. She gave most
kindly and gracious smiles to all, but to him not
one word, not one look.
Despite all rebuffs, his faith never failed him.
He felt sure of victory in the end. He did con-
trive to take her into dinner, but he could not
make her talk to him or look at him. Never-
theless he was nothing daunted.
When dinner was over, the whole party dis-
persed at will. There was music, singing, and
reading. Some wandered into the conserva-
tories. There was a small square court, covered
with stained glass, and lighted with lamps.
Great vases of evergreens stood in the midst
with a copy of the far-famed Hercules. A mar-
ble Psyche stood on a pedestal, and at her feet
lay a basket of crimson exotics. It was one of
the prettiest and quietest nooks at Dynewell.
Sir Lancelot managed to persuade Lady Gwen-
doline to walk thither with him. Perhaps she
knew that what was coming was inevitable, and
saw no reason to defer the evil hour.
They stood looking in silence at the Hercules
and the sweet Psyche.
"I admire the old mythological fables," said
Sir Lancelot; "they must be full of poetry to
endure all these hundreds of years; to each gen
eration they are new and fresh and beautiful."
He looked from the marble Psyche, with its
perfect symmetry, to the living, beautiful wo-
man by his side. What goddess loved of men
was ever more fair than she?
"I was wondering," he resumed, "which of
the goddesses, as they are painted in song, you
resemble most."
"Not Minerva,"
she observed, with a faint
smile.
"No—
Aphrodite; only the hair she parted
from her brows was light, and yours is dead-
gold. You are Aphrodite.
It was coming; do what she might, it was not
possible to avert it now.
"But Aphrodite was never one-half so fair,"
pursued Sir Lancelot; and in the soft, crimson
light of the quaint square court she looked
beautiful beyond words. She wore a dress of
rich white brocade that had a small scarlet flower
worked in it; on the dead-gold hair lay a
wreath of scarlet berries and green leaves. Her
ornaments were a suite of rubies that were like
points of living flame.
She clasped her hands and leaned them on
the pedestal of the marble Psyche. It was com-
ing, this trial from which she had sought to es-
cape. She must trample on the great passion-
ate love he had laid at her feet. She must break
the heart that he had laid in the hollow of her
hand. He did not see how white her face had
grown, and how her lips were quivering.
"Lady Gwendoline," he continued, after a
pause, "I have brought you here to listen to
me. You were kind to me once—only once—
and that was on the evening that I met you
first; you were kind to me, and my hope grew.
I said to myself that you were the fairest and
the most noble woman that I had ever met, and
that I would live for a purpose—the purpose of
winning you for my wife. You have been cold
to me since then—cold as the marble Psyche
here—but that has not changed my love; just
as I worshiped you then I worship you now, and
I pray you, my darling, whom I love so dearly
to be my wife."
A low cry came from her lips, and she clenched
her hands so tightly that the gemmed rings
almost pierced her delicate skin.
"Gwendoline, be my wife," entreated Sir Lan-
celot. "I have grown to love you so dearly
that I have no life outside my love. I will live
only to make you happy, and you shall be hap-
py as no one ever was before."
He came nearer to her, and, kneeling down,
took the little white hands in his own and kissed
them with passionate kisses. In vain she tried
to withdraw them.
"You must not, Sir Lancelot," she said,
faintly; "you must not do that."
These little hands—so tender, so white, so
sweet—they hold my life—my life, sweet, and I
can live only once. Gwendoline, I offer you the
truest love that ever man had for woman. I of-
fer you all I have in this world to give. I am
here at your feet a suppliant—tell me that you
you will be my wife, dear.
The little hands he held were cold as death:
the beautiful face into which he gazed with
such passionate pleading was white as that of
the marble Psyche; a voice that was unlike any
human voice he had ever heard said:
"I cannot! Do not ask me—let me go!"
He did not let her go, but he drew her nearer
to him. He kissed her trembling hands.
"I shall never let you go, dear. I am not
afraid. I expected to hear you say this, you
have been so coy and timid with me. Yet I
cannot tell how it is, Gwendoline, I feel that
you care a little for me, that you are not so
cold, so proud, so hard as you would make me
think. I believe you care for me just a little.
My darling, let me teach you how to love me—
will you, Gwendoline?"
"I cannot," she gasped
"You are as proud as you are fair," he said.
"Gwendoline, the whole world shall not hold a
happier woman than you, if you will be my
wife."
"I cannot," she repeated, and this time her
tone was one of such utter conviction, such utter despair, that he felt frightened.
She raised her face, and then he saw how
white it was, and how clouded were the blue
eyes.
"You cannot, Gwendoline! Surely you do
not mean to send me from you—you cannot
mean to reject me?"
"Yes," she replied, faintly, "I must."
:1 .a$
He stood silent for some minutes, like a man
who had received a violent blow, and then his
whole face softened, and a mist like tears shone
in his eyes.
"Oh, my darling," he said, "think before
you reject a love like mine; it is so deep, so
tender, so true, no one could ever care more
for you, no one could ever love you better. I
will cherish you as my own soul; I will stand
between you and every shadow of evil or harm:
no care from which earthly love can free you
shall ever be yours; you shall not know trouble
or sorrow; you shall find that human love can
do much—mine shall go with you to the end of
our life. Oh, my darling, think twice before
you send me away."
"It is of no use thinking," she returned,
wearily; "I can give no other answer.
"Do not be too proud to love me, sweet; you
must love some one. None of us, not even the
proudest, can do without love. And, Gwendoline, no one ever can or ever will love you as I
do—do you believe that?"
"Yes," she replied, gently: "I believe it."
His face brightened; if she believed that, it
was easy to make her believe the rest. The
terrible fear that had lain on his heart grew
less,
"You may read what the poets sing of love,
Gwendoline; you may read the great love sto-
ries that have thrilled the world; but, when
you do so, remember what I say—that neither
poetry nor song, neither legend nor romance,
ever told of love greater than mine."
She had bowed her head as she listened until
the dead gold of her hair touched the Psyche's
white feet.
"Give me something in return for it, Gwen-
doline. I have given you my all—my faith, my
hope, my love, my life—I have kept nothing
for myself; be generous, and give me some-
thing in return.
"I have nothing to give," she replied.
"Nothing! Oh, Gwendoline, you cannot be
serious; you cannot mean that you would take
all and give nothing; you cannot mean that
you will make me the most wretched man on
earth—me, whose only fault has been my great
love for you! Be just, be merciful, be pitiful
to me."
His voice sank to a pleading whisper, his head
drooped until his face was bent over her clasped
hands; and so for some minutes they re-
mained, while his throbbing pulse beat faster
and faster.
"Gwendoline, all that man can pray I pray,"
he pleaded; "to pray more would be to act the
slave. Be just to me.
I ask for your love as I
would ask for my life."
"I have none to give," she said, faintly. "Sir
Lancelot, you torture me!"
He moved backward; the tenderness died
from his face.
"I plead for your love, and you call it tor-
ture," he said.
"Why is it? Why do you send
me from you?"
"When such an offer as yours is refused
there can be but one reason," she said.
"And that," he interpreted, "is want of
love. I will tease and torture you no more,
Lady Gwendoline."
He raised the velvet hanging that divided the
little court from the corridor and went out,
leaving her by the marble Psyche—alone.
(To be Continued.)
"Home's the place for boys," said a
stern parent to his son, who was fond of going out
at night. "That's just what I think when you
drive me off to school every morning," said the
son,