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He stopped with a great sob, and then hurried on, drawing his hat over his eyes.

Austin Ambrose watched him with keen scrutiny, much as a surgeon might watch the subject upon which he was experimenting with saw and knife.

"Blair," he said, panting a little, for his victim walked fast. "You should fight against this weakness. It is ruining you, body and soul. It is not fair to yourself, or to your best friends. To me, for instance, or to the earl."

"The earl!" said poor Blair, with a bitter laugh. "What does he care?"

"Or to Violet. Don't be angry, now," for Blair had turned upon him almost savagely. "She is your friend, and you know it. Why don't you go and see her?"

"Why? Because I can go and see no one!" groaned the unhappy man. "I tell you my lost darling haunts me continually. I see her so plainly sometimes that I can scarcely believe she is really dead!"

Austin Ambrose started, then smiled reassuringly to himself.

"How can I mix with my fellow men in the state I am in? You must give me time, man!" he cried almost savagely. "Give me time!"

They had reached Blair's chambers by this, and with a nod he turned and slowly mounted the stairs.

Austin Ambrose, left alone, leant against the lamp-post and, panting a little, lit a cigar, his cold, gray eyes fixed upon the light that shone in Blair's window.

"You fool!" he muttered. "You simple fool! I've got you in my net – and her, too! Give you time! Yes, you shall have time, but whether you take long or come quickly I have got you!"

For a week after this Austin Ambrose saw nothing of him; he was missed at his club, and – very much – missed at the Green Tables. No one could tell where he had gone, but in truth he was wandering with a knapsack on his back through an out-of-the-way part of the country, solitary and companionless save by his own sad thoughts.

At the end of the week Violet Graham was sitting moodily by the fire, thinking of him and of the dark mystery of Margaret Hale's death, wondering whether all her passionate desires would be fulfilled, when a servant opening the door quietly, said:

"Lord Leyton."

She started to her feet, the blood coursing through her veins; then, suddenly remembering Austin Ambrose's advice, sank down again, and, looking over her shoulder, said, in a low and rather languid voice:

"Oh, is that you, Blair?"

Blair was very much relieved by the manner of his reception. He had expected, and dreaded, a fuss, and he was grateful to her for sparing him.

"Yes, it's I," he said, taking her hand, which trembled a little, for all her efforts to keep it steady. "You didn't expect to see me. I ought to have called before, but – " he hesitated and looked down, as men do who are bad at excuses.

"But you are given to leaving undone what you should do, and doing that which you should leave undone!" she said, with a soft laugh. "Of course, I am glad to see you. Come nearer the fire. It is an awful evening, isn't it?"

"Beastly!" he said, and he drew his chair up to the fire.

"You are just in time for tea. Shall we have lights?"

"No," he replied, "unless you want them. I like this firelight."

"It is rather cozy," she said. "I am fond of it myself. Will you ring the bell?"

He rang the bell, and the servant brought in the tea-tray, with its little silver kettle, and placed it upon the small table near by.

The fire burned brightly, the kettle sang, the richly yet tastefully-furnished room was redolent of luxurious comfort, and poor Blair nestled into his chair, and thought of the "beastly" weather outside.

Violet stole a glance at him as she busied herself with her tea-making, and a sharp pang shot through her as she saw in the firelight the pale, haggard face, which she had last seen so bright and careless.

She was just about to say: "You have been very ill, haven't you?" but once again she remembered Austin Ambrose's caution, and, instead, she said:

"Where have you been, Blair?"

He started, and roused himself.

"Lately, do you mean?" he said, looking at the fire still. "I have been wandering about Somersetshire."

"Not shooting with a party?"

"No," he answered. "I have been alone. Just tramping round to – to kill time. I have been rather seedy, you know, but I am all right now," he added, quickly, as if he feared she might question him.

All right! Her heart ached, but she forced a smile.

"You don't take any care of yourself, Blair," she said, lightly, though her soul was filled with bitterness at the thought that it was the loss of that "other woman" which had wrought such havoc with him. "Here is your tea; I think I remember how you like it."

"It is first rate," he said. "You always used to make good tea, Vi."

The color mounted to her face at the sound of the familiar name. How long it was since she had heard him use it.

"Did I? It is about the only thing I can do properly."

Then she went on talking in a light and cheerful tone, the sort of talk that exacts almost nothing from the listener – gossip about places and people he knew, the last scandal of the five o'clock teas, pleasant chat, to which he could listen or not, just as he chose. And Blair did not listen all the time, but sat looking at the fire, with his teacup in his hand, and marveling in a dreamy fashion at the faithfulness of women.

This girl – the most hunted heiress in London, pretty, accomplished, every way desirable, whom he had neglected, almost deserted – received him as if he had been most devoted and steadfast. It was wonderful!

His heart smote him, and he felt drawn toward her in a curious kind of way.

After all, it is to the women men go when trouble smites them. There is no heart so tender, no sympathy so sure as that of a woman.

 
"Oh, woman, in our hours of ease.
Uncertain, coy, and hard to please —
When pain and anguish wring the brow,
A ministering angel thou!"
 

What a brute he had been not to come near her all this time! he thought, and under the impulse of his self-reproach he felt inclined to tell her all.

"Vi," he said, abruptly, breaking into the middle of some story she was telling him.

"Well?" she said, turning her face to him, with a sudden light in her eyes, a light of hope and expectancy.

"I want to tell you," he said, passing his hand across his brow, "you know I have been in trouble lately. You may have heard something of it from Austin – "

"From Austin Ambrose?" she said. "No. Why should he tell me?"

"I didn't know. I thought perhaps he would. Vi, I have had a rough time of it – a very rough time of it. I don't think any man has suffered more than I have, during these last few months."

He leant forward in his chair, and put up his hand, so that it hid his face from her.

"Tell me, Blair," she said. "Poor Blair!" and stretching out her hand she laid it, softly as a feather, upon his.

Something in her voice, or perhaps it was the touch of her hand, reminded him of Margaret so keenly that he shuddered and his face went white.

She felt the shudder, and her acute sense saw the danger.

"Stop, Blair," she murmured. "Perhaps it is better that you should not tell me. Whatever it is – and it must have been something terrible – it will be well that you should forget it; and you won't forget it any the sooner by talking of it. No, don't tell me! But I am very sorry, Blair, very – very." Her face paled, and her lips, which were very close to his face as she bent forward, quivered. "I think I would go through a great deal to save you from pain, Blair. We are such old friends, are we not?"

"Yes – yes," he said, brokenly, and he put out his hand, and took hers and pressed it. "Yes, you were always good to me – too good, Vi. I don't deserve that you should be so kind now, after leaving you all this time!"

"Never mind that," she murmured, and her voice was as soft and tender as only a woman's can be to the man she loves. "Don't let us think of that. I will be as kind as you like, Blair!"

The poor fellow's wounded heart was aching; his strength, mental and physical, broken down by illness and the long, dreary tramp; something suspiciously like tears shone in his eyes, and he raised her hand to his lips in speechless gratitude for her kindness and gentleness.

"Oh, not my hand, dear!" she murmured, and slipping down at his knees, she put up her lips.

Blair bent down and kissed her, as he was bound to do. He could not have done otherwise, and by that kiss he sealed his fate. And yet, even as he gave it, the sweet face of Margaret rose as plainly before him as if it were she and not Violet Graham who knelt at his feet.

CHAPTER XXIV

Margaret went to her beautiful suit of rooms that night with a beating heart and a mind sorely troubled.

Prince Rivani had proposed to her!

It had come so unexpectedly that it overwhelmed her. There are a great many princes in Italy – they are commoner there than with us, but still a prince is a prince, and this one was amongst the best and highest of his order. Margaret had not dreamed that he would have condescended to bestow more than a passing and friendly thought upon the unknown English woman who dwelt in his house as the governess and companion to his sister.

And now, quite suddenly, without preparation, he had asked her to be his wife!

It seemed incredible, but it was only too true; and what was she to do?

It would have been bad enough if she had been an ordinary English woman, and her insignificance and poverty the only drawbacks; but her position was not so good as that even. There was a blot upon her escutcheon which made it impossible for her to be the wife of any honest man, however humble he might be, least of all the wife of so great a man as Prince Rivani!

She had so completely buried all thought of love in the tomb of the past, that it had never occurred to her that a man might fall in love with her, and now, as she stood before the glass and looked dreamily and sadly at her face, she was bound to admit, and that without vanity, that she was beautiful; but how beautiful, how supremely lovely, she herself did not guess.

But now what was she to do? Improbable and unlikely as it seemed, Prince Rivani had fallen in love with her and asked her to be his wife, and, as it was simply impossible that she should marry him, there was only one course open for her; she must leave the villa and Florence, and at once.

She sighed deeply as the conviction was forced upon her. She had been, after a fashion, almost happy; she had been at peace at any rate with these great people, who had lavished their kindness upon her and won her gratitude and love.

And now she must go! Must leave the kind old lady, who, with all her stateliness, had ever been tender to the unknown English girl; leave Florence who loved her with all the warmth of her young unscathed heart!

She sighed again, and, opening the window, looked out at the night, or rather morning, for midnight had passed some hours since, and as she did so the faint perfume of a cigar floated up to her, and she saw the tall figure of the prince walking to and fro on the terrace beneath. He, too, was sleepless, and thinking of her! She closed the window quietly and was beginning to undress, when there came a knock at the door and the Princess Florence entered.

For the first time Margaret was not glad to see her, but Florence unsuspectingly ran in and put her arm round the white shapely neck.

"Oh, forgive me, dear!" she murmured, with the impulsive enthusiasm of her age. "But I could not go to sleep until I came to you and told you how glad I am!"

"Glad?" said Margaret, flushing quickly, and tossing the long tresses of silky hair so that they hid her face.

"Yes, glad!" repeated Florence, joyously. "Why, you dear, sly girl, you are not going to be so wicked as to pretend that you don't know what has happened?"

"What has happened?" said Margaret, her face all aflame for a moment, then growing pale.

"I mean your great success to-night," said the girl, sinking at Margaret's feet and leaning her head against her knee. "I can't sleep for thinking of it. The countess says she remembers nothing like it, it is not only the picture, which was quite enough to make you famous, but yourself, dear – yourself! Isn't it almost too unfair for one person to be so lovely and bewitching and also so clever?"

Margaret forced a smile and smoothed the girl's rather rough locks.

"Are you making fun of me, princess?" she said pleasantly, and yet a little sadly.

The princess looked up at her amazedly, then uttered an exclamation.

"Then it really is true that you don't know that you have caused such a sensation?" she exclaimed. "Why, dear, it was a furore, it was a 'Veni, vidi, vici,' as our ancient emperor said. Do you know that directly you left the salon everybody fell to talking about you, though they had done that while you were there under pretense of talking about your picture. They all talked about you as if you were something that had dropped out of the skies, and we Rivanis were lucky to own the particular spot of earth upon which your divinityship descended."

Margaret laughed softly. The girl's enthusiasm amused her, and yet it was honest enough.

"You may laugh, but let me tell you, you quiet little woman, that your name will be ringing all through Italy before the week is out!"

"I sincerely trust not," said Margaret.

"Oh, but it will!" retorted the princess. "Signor Alfero is going to send your picture to be exhibited, and he will express the admiration he feels for it all through Rome; and Rome – which is the art-center of the world – will spread it through Europe, and you will be famous! And then people will ask what the artist is like, and the countess and all those whose hearts you won to-night will tell what a lovely and charming girl you are, and you will have the world at your feet!"

"You talk nonsense very eloquently, princess," said Margaret gently.

"Is it nonsense? That is good! I will tell Ferdinand!"

"Ferdinand – the prince!" said Margaret.

"Yes," laughed Florence. "For if it is nonsense, it is his nonsense, for I heard him say it after you left the room; and he said it almost gravely, as if he were sad rather than otherwise. Now, why should he be sad?" she went on, looking up at Margaret's face thoughtfully.

"Isn't it rather too late for guessing riddles, dear?" suggested Margaret.

"Late! Who could sleep after such a night?" exclaimed the princess, with the sublime contempt for repose belonging to her age. "Why should he be sad, dear? I know he admires you, for when the countess asked him if he thought you pretty – pretty! What impertinence! – he smiled and said, 'No!' and he meant that he thought you more than pretty – lovely!"

"Do you think it is quite fair to construe his thoughts?" said Margaret.

"Oh, everything is fair in love and war – " She stopped suddenly and looked up at Margaret, and her face flushed eagerly. "Oh! Do you know a thought has struck me. Only think, if Ferdinand should – " She stopped, and clasped Margaret round her waist. "Why, I believe he does already. Oh, dear! It seems almost too good to be true. But fancy if you should, some day, become my real sister!"

Margaret's face crimsoned, then gradually grew pale and strained.

"Princess," she said slowly, "never jest on such a subject again – for my sake and your own."

Gently as the words were spoken, they frightened the young girl.

"Oh, what have I said?" she murmured. "Was it very wicked?" and her lips began to tremble.

Margaret forced a smile, and caressed the rumpled hair tenderly.

"A philosopher who was also a wit once declared that a thing was worse than wicked, it was absurd," she said; "and that is also my answer, and now go to bed, dear, or you will appear at the breakfast table and frighten all your friends, for they will think they see the ghost of the Princess Florence."

The girl thought that her incautious speech had struck some discord in her dear friend's heart, and, kissing her penitently, stole from the room.

"Yes," said Margaret to herself, "I must leave them – I must go into hiding again. Oh, Blair, Blair, you have not only ruined my past, but blighted all my future! It is not only that no love can ever visit my heart again, but you have made even peace impossible!"

Meanwhile the prince strode up and down the terrace, smoking his cigar and glancing now and again up at the windows of the room which contained the woman he loved.

Prince Rivani, the descendant of a noble race, was young, handsome, a favorite at court, a gallant officer, a popular young man all round, and yet he was neither vain nor a fool – which is singular.

To say that he had fallen in love with Margaret the first time he saw her, when he nearly rode her down, would be to say too much; but when she came to live at the villa, and he saw her day by day, her beauty, and grace, and that sweetness which is given to so few women, but which she possessed so abundantly, grew upon him, until he awoke one day to find that his heart had left him, and that he loved the young English girl of whose past he knew – nothing!

King Cophetua and the beggar girl is a very pretty story, and no doubt the king was very happy with his bride for a time, but the story does not go on to tell us that they were happy ever afterward, and as a matter of fact we may conclude that the monarch who marries a beggar maid commits a remarkably rash act. Such matches are not always happy ones.

Prince Rivani knew that he was expected to marry a lady of his own rank, or at any rate, of his own class. He knew that there were at least half a dozen beautiful women at the court, from whom he might choose a wife, and from whom he would be expected to choose one. "To marry beneath him," would, if it did not quite break her heart, make his mother, the signora, very unhappy, and would probably ruin his promising career.

He was a gentleman, and he was not a fool, so he went off to court determined to cure himself of the passion which had assailed him, and to forget the lovely English girl with the sad look in her dark eyes, and the sweet smile which made him long to keep it on her face forever.

It was a task beyond his strength, this forgetting her, but he had hoped that he was out of danger, when he returned and lo! – discovered that her love had taken too firm a hold upon his heart to be rooted out. The girl he had left unknown and of little account in the world, had suddenly, in a night, become famous. The glamour of her beauty, which had so affected even strangers, exercised a fascination for him, and he had spoken and avowed his love.

And she had refused him – or something like it. It was this refusal he was pondering over as he paced up and down, smoking cigar after cigar, long after the rest of the villa was hushed in quietude, if not repose.

Should he accept her refusal? No, he would not, he could not! She had become part and parcel of his very life; all his thoughts centered in her. At night he lay awake and called up her face; at day he thought of and longed for her. And to lose her at a word! She had said "No," because he had startled her. He had been too sudden and too abrupt! – the very first night of his return to the villa. He should have waited and prepared her by his attentions for the avowal he had sprung upon her last night.

No, he would not relinquish the hope which made life sweet to him so easily; he would win her even against herself if need were.

So, with one more glance at the window, the prince went to his rooms, to lie awake and watch the dawn creeping over the fair city which his race had helped to make illustrious.

Margaret did not appear at the breakfast table; but her absence was not commented on, for it was understood by all that the Villa Capri was Liberty Hall, and that each guest was fit to come and go as he or she pleased. So they made up for her absence by talking of her as they had talked the preceding night.

They were all curious, highly curious, to know something about her; but the signora, when appealed to, smiled her serene smile and shook her head.

"I can't tell you anything about her," she said; "I have never asked her for her confidence. She is a lady, and that is sufficient for me."

And they remained silent, for they could scarcely be so rude as to suggest that what sufficed for the signora did not satisfy them!

The guests dispersed after breakfast, the ladies to their boudoirs and the music-room, the gentlemen to the armory for their guns, for a shooting expedition had been planned.

The prince, as in duty bound, went with it, though he would far rather have remained at home in his study to think of Margaret.

They returned in time to dress for dinner, and the prince, who seemed tired, went straight to his sister's room.

"Oh, is it you, Ferdy?" she said; "you have just come in time to coil up this plait for me. My maid has run off to Miss Leslie's room; she is always so anxious to desert me for her. They are all alike – the servants, I mean; I think they worship her!" and she laughed with a poor imitation of a pout.

The prince gathered up a plait of the shining hair, and kissed it with brotherly affection as he attempted to arrange it.

"They all love her, do they?" he said; "and you, too, Florrie, eh?"

"And you, too, Ferdy, eh?" she retorted, glancing round at him wickedly.

He did not flush, but met her gaze steadily.

"And I, too, Florence," he said, gravely.

"Oh, Ferdy," she exclaimed, clasping her hands, "I am so glad! – I am so happy! I thought it was so, but I only thought. And – oh, I don't know what to say – and when are you going to tell her?" she demanded impetuously.

"I have told her," he said, quietly.

"And – oh!" for she read the result in his eyes.

"Never mind," he said, gently; "all is not lost yet. But do not speak of it – least of all to her. Have you seen her to-day – has she been down?"

"I have seen her, but she has not been down. She has kept her own apartments, and has been working; and yet only a very little, I think. Oh, Ferdy, it can't be because she doesn't love you; that's impossible."

"Thank you," he said, forcing a smile. "You will thrive at court, Florrie."

"But it can't be! There must be something else – somebody else!"

His face grew pale and his lips contracted, and he opened his lips as if to speak, but he remained silent for a moment, then said:

"I must dress, or I shall be late," and left the room.

On his way he passed the door of Margaret's painting-room, and as he did so the princess' maid came out. She started and stepped back with a courtesy, leaving the door open. Margaret came to the door to say something to the maid, and seeing the prince, stopped short.

For a moment they looked at each other without saying anything; then he bowed and drew a little nearer, and as the servant sped noiselessly away, said in a low voice, full of respect and reverence:

"Miss Leslie, will you forget what I said last night? No, not forget, but remember that I will not speak again without your permission?"

Margaret inclined her head.

"You are my mother's guest, as well as the woman I love, and I will keep the silence you commanded! You will honor us with your company at table?"

Margaret could find no words, but she inclined her head in assent, and the prince, with a low bow, which seemed as eloquent of gratitude and worship as the most ardent words could have been, left her.

That night, while the rest gathered round her, vying with each other for a word or a smile, the prince kept away from her side. Only twice did he address her; once to bring her a fan when the room grew hot; and the second time, to lay a shawl by her side when, the windows having been opened, the temperature changed rapidly.

The days glided on. Fresh additions were made to the party, but Margaret's popularity did not decrease. Fame, that had been prophesied for her, came, for her picture had been exhibited.

The great Alfero had expressed his admiration, and her name was ringing through Rome as that of the coming artist.

And through it all Margaret's heart was haunted by trouble. Day after day she met the prince, and his conduct toward her was the same. But though he refrained from paying her marked attention, it was evident to her and Florence – who watched him – that he was continually thinking of her.

Others might flock round her with the ready flattery of their ready tongues, courting the young girl whose picture had become famous in the world of art, and her beauty the theme in the world of fashion, but it was he who now and again stood with extended hand to help her into the carriage, or placed some choice blossom near her plate. No woman, daughter of Eve, could be insensible to devotion such as this; it would have touched a heart of stone, and Margaret's heart was anything but stony.

She scarcely exchanged three words a day with him, but she found herself looking toward him when he spoke to others, and meeting his gaze, which seemed to be always wandering toward her, her own eyes would fall, and her lips tremble.

Get away she must: and yet how? Night after night she lay awake trying to frame some excuse which would withstand the entreaties of the signora and Florence; and she decided to remain until the party broke up and the prince returned to the court, and then she would vanish – forever.

The last night arrived. The party had been out on the hills, and returned with the gayety of spirits which we English – alas! – know nothing of. The great banqueting hall was brilliant with light, and the guests in their magnificent costumes and gorgeous uniforms gave additional splendor to the decorations.

Margaret stole down to the drawing-room a few minutes before the gong sounded, and her advent was the signal for a crowd of courtiers to throng round her.

"I should think you would be glad when we are all gone!" said one, a white-haired veteran, who seemed to find it impossible to leave the side of the quiet English girl, with her sweet smile and rare eyes. "I know you artists so love quiet, and we make such a noise, do we not? Alas! we shall all be quiet enough to-morrow, for we shall be far away from the dear villa, and thinking of you – "

"Please include me, count," said the signora.

He made her a bow.

"I spoke collectively, of course," he said, amidst the general laugh, and not a whit discomposed. "If you knew how dreary you make the court after your villa, and how we pine after you all!" he said, with a sigh. "Why, I declare, to-day, if it had not been for the effort which becomes a duty, we should most of us have been in tears. I missed everything I shot at, did I not, prince? But, bah! I must not appeal to you, for you were as bad. Indeed, I do not know what has come to you lately; you have lost your own altogether."

"That is true," said a young attache; "and Rivani used to be the best shot amongst us; the best I know, except Blair Leyton."

The prince was standing beside Margaret, showing her some photographs of Rome which he had sent for, and was paying no attention to the general conversation.

"That is St. Peter's," he was saying, when suddenly Blair's name smote upon her ear.

She looked up, pale as death, and the photograph fell from her hand to the floor. Half a dozen hands were outstretched to recover it, but the prince stooped and picked it up, and stood in front of her as a screen.

"Are you ill?" he asked in a low voice; but Margaret did not hear him. She sat, leaning forward a little, her face deadly white, her eyes fixed upon the young attache.

The prince took up a fan and unobtrusively fanned her, his fine eyes fixed on her face with the tenderest regard.

She did not seem as if she were about to faint, but rather as if she had fallen into a trance.

"Blair Leyton?" said the count. "Blair Leyton?" and at every repetition of the name a tremulous quiver passed rapidly over Margaret's white face.

"Yes, Viscount Leyton, the Earl of Ferrers' nephew. Surely you remember him, general?"

"Oh, yes," said the count. "I had forgotten for the moment. Yes, yes! He was a good shot. One in a thousand. I was with him in the Black Forest – and in England, too. A wonderful shot! A wonderful young man, too," he added; then, as some reminiscence occurred to him, he warmed into enthusiasm. "A fine specimen of an English sportsman. I do not think I ever saw a young man ride as he rode. It was in one of the English hunting counties; and he was riding a perfect demon of a horse. There was no other man on the field who would have got into the saddle, and yet this young lord rode him as if he were a lady's palfrey. I saw him jump – " He stopped and smiled. "I am afraid, my dear signora, you would not believe me if I were to tell you. It was a tremendous jump, and to miss it meant a broken limb – or a broken neck."

He paused, and Margaret, who had been fighting against the terrible effect the mere mention of Blair's name had worked upon her, recovered, and with a sigh, withdrew her eyes from the speaker, and looked up at the prince.

"Are you better?" he murmured, still screening her from the rest, and affecting to examine the costly fan he held.

"I – I am quite well," she said, looking down. "It must have been the heat."

"Doubtless," he said. "I will see the dining-room is cooler."

The gong sounded at the moment, and he had to leave her and give his arm to the countess, but Margaret heard him give directions to the servants respecting the dining-room windows.

The dinner proceeded. Her chair was placed within about six of his at the bottom of the table, and sometimes he would lean forward and say a few words; but to-night, although he watched her with that tender scrutiny of which Love teaches us the secret, he said nothing. And she sat silent, not listening to the talk around her, but thinking of that past which Blair's name had recalled all too vividly. The splendid room, the brilliant company, faded from her sight, and in their place rose the inclosed garden at the Court, and in the moon rays stood close by her side the man who even then, as she thought, was plotting her ruin!

Suddenly she heard his name again. It was the old general, who, apparently, could not forget the young Englishman who had taken the big jump.