The next three weeks passed for Lord Tancred in continuously growing excitement.  He had much business to see to for the reopening of Wrayth which had been closed for the past two years.  He had decided to let Zara choose her own rooms, and decorate them as she pleased, when she should get there.  But the big state apartments, with their tapestry and pictures, would remain untouched.

It gave him infinite pleasure ­the thought of living at his old house once again ­and it touched him to see the joy of the village and all the old keepers and gardeners who had been pensioned off!  He found himself wondering all sorts of things ­if he would have a son some day soon, to inherit it all.  Each wood and broad meadow seemed to take on new interest and significance from this thought.

His home was so very dear to him though he had drilled himself into a seeming indifference.  The great, round tower of the original Norman keep was still there, connected with the walls of the later house, a large, wandering edifice built at all periods from that epoch upwards, and culminating in a shocking early-Victorian Gothic wing and porch.

“I think we shall pull that wretched bit down some time,” he said to himself.  “Zara must have good taste ­she could not look so well in her clothes, if she had not.”

His thoughts were continually for her, and what she would be likely to wish; and, in the evening, when he sat alone in his own sanctum after a hard day with electricians and work-people, he would gaze into the blazing logs and dream.

The new electric light was not installed yet, and only the big, old lamps lit the shadowy oak panelling.  There in a niche beside the fireplace was the suit of armor which another Tristram Guiscard had worn at Agincourt.  What little chaps they had been in those days in comparison with himself and his six feet two inches!  But they had been great lords, his ancestors, and he, too, would be worthy of the race.  There were no wars just now to go to and fight for his country ­but he would fight for his order, with his uncle, the Duke, that splendid, old specimen of the hereditary legislator.  Francis Markrute who was a good judge had said that he had made some decent speeches in the House of Lords already, and he would go on and do his best, and Zara would help him.  He wondered if she liked reading and poetry.  He was such a magnificently healthy sportsman he had always been a little shy of letting people know his inner and gentler tastes.  He hoped so much she would care for the books he did.  There was a deep strain of romance in his nature, undreamed of by such women as Laura Highford, and these evenings ­alone, musing and growing in love with a phantom ­drew it forth.

His plan was to go to Paris ­to the Ritz ­for the honeymoon.  Zara who did not know England would probably hate the solemn servants staring at her in those early days if he took her to Orton, one of the Duke’s places which he had offered him for the blissful week.  Paris was much better ­they could go to the theater there ­because he knew it would not all be plain sailing by any means!  And every time he thought of that aspect, his keen, blue eyes sparkled with the instinct of the chase and he looked the image of the Baron Tancred who, carved in stone, with his Crusader’s crossed feet, reposed in state in the church of Wrayth.

A lissom, wiry, splendid English aristocrat, in perfect condition and health, was Tristram Guiscard, twenty-fourth Baron Tancred, as he lounged in his chair before the fire and dreamed of his lady and his fate.

And when they were used to one another ­at the end of the week ­there would be the party at Montfitchet where he would have the joy and pride of showing his beautiful wife ­and Laura would be there; ­he suddenly thought of her.  Poor old Laura! she had been awfully nice about it and had written him the sweetest letter.  He would not have believed her capable of it ­and he felt so kindly disposed towards her ­little as she deserved it if he had only known!

Then when these gayeties were over, he and Zara would come here to Wrayth!  And he could not help picturing how he would make love to her in this romantic setting; and perhaps soon she, too, would love him.  When he got thus far in his picturings he would shut his eyes, stretch out his long limbs, and call to Jake, his solemn bulldog, and pat his wrinkled head.

And Zara, in Paris, was more tranquil in mind than was her wont.  Mirko had not made much difficulty about going to Bournemouth.  Everything was so pretty, the day she took him there, the sun shining gayly and the sea almost as blue as the Mediterranean, and Mrs. Morley, the doctor’s wife, had been so gentle and sweet, and had drawn him to her heart at once, and petted him, and talked of his violin.  The doctor had examined his lungs and said they certainly might improve with plenty of the fine air if he were very carefully fed and tended, and not allowed to catch cold.

The parting with poor Mimo had been very moving.  They had said good-bye to him in the Neville Street lodging, as Zara thought it was wiser not to risk a scene at the station.  The father and son had kissed and clasped one another and both wept, and Mimo had promised to come to see him soon, soon!

Then there had been another painful wrench when she herself left Bournemouth.  She had put off her departure until the afternoon of the following day.  Mirko had tried to be as brave as he could; but the memory of the pathetic little figure, as she saw it waving a hand to her from the window, made those rare tears brim up and splash on her glove, as she sat in the train.

In her short life with its many moments of deep anguish she had seldom been able to cry; there were always others to be thought of first, and an iron self-control was one of her inheritances from her grandfather, the Emperor, just as that voluptuous, undulating grace, and the red, lustrous hair, came from the beautiful opera dancer and great artiste, her grandmother.

She had cautioned Mrs. Morley, if she should often hear Mirko playing the Chanson Triste, to let her know, and she would come to him.  It was a sure indication of his state of mind.  And Mrs. Morley, who had read in the Morning Post the announcement of her approaching marriage, asked her where she could be found, and Zara had stiffened suddenly and said ­at her uncle’s house in Park Lane, the letters to be marked “To be forwarded immediately.”

And when she had gone, Mrs. Morley had told her sister who had come in to tea how beautiful Countess Shulski was and how very regal looking, “but she had on such plain, almost shabby, black clothes, Minnie dear, and a small black toque, and then the most splendid sable wrap ­those very grand people do have funny tastes, don’t they?  I should have liked a pretty autumn costume of green velveteen, and a hat with a wing or a bird.”

The financier had insisted upon his niece wearing the sable wrap ­and somehow, in spite of all things, the beautiful, dark, soft fur had given her pleasure.

And now, three weeks later, she was just returning from Paris, her beauty enriched by all that money and taste could procure.  It was the eighteenth of October, exactly a week before her wedding.

She had written to Mimo from Paris, and told him she was going to be married; that she was doing so because she thought it was best for them all; and he had written back enchanted exclamations of surprise and joy, and had told her she should have his new picture, the London fog ­so dramatic with its two meeting figures ­for his wedding gift.  Poor Mimo, so generous, always, with all he had!

Mirko was not to be told until she was actually married.

She had written to her uncle and asked him as a great favor that she might only arrive the very day of the family dinner party, he could plead for her excess of trousseau business, or what he liked.  She would come by the nine o’clock morning train, so as to be in ample time for dinner; and it would be so much easier for every one, if they could get the meeting over, the whole family together, rather than have the ordeal of private presentations.

And Francis Markrute had agreed, while Lord Tancred had chafed.

“I shall meet her at the station, whatever you say, Francis!” he had exclaimed.  “I am longing to see her.”

And as the train drew up at Victoria, Zara caught sight of him there on the platform, and in spite of her dislike and resentment she could not help seeing that her fiance was a wonderfully good-looking man.

She herself appeared to him as the loveliest thing he had ever seen in his life, with her perfect Paris clothes, and air of distinction.  If he had thought her attractive before he felt ecstatic in his admiration now.

Francis Markrute hurried up the platform and Tristram frowned, but the financier knew it might not be safe to leave them to a tete-a-tete drive to the house!  Zara’s temper might not brook it, and he had rushed back from the city, though he hated rushing, in order to be on the spot to make a third.

“Welcome, my niece!” he said, before Lord Tancred could speak.  “You see, we have both come to greet you.”

She thanked them politely, and turned to give an order to her new French maid ­and some of the expectant, boyish joy died out of Tristram’s face, as he walked beside her to the waiting motor.

They said the usual things about the crossing ­it had been smooth and pleasant ­so fortunate for that time of the year ­and she had stayed on deck and enjoyed it.  Yes, Paris had been charming; it was always a delightful spot to find oneself in.

Then Tristram said he was glad she thought that, because, if she would consent, he would arrange to go there for the honeymoon directly after the wedding.  She inclined her head in acquiescence but did not speak.  The matter appeared one of complete indifference to her.

In spite of his knowledge that this would be her attitude and he need not expect anything different Tristram’s heart began to sink down into his boots, by the time they reached the house, and Francis Markrute whispered to his niece as they came up the steps: 

“I beg of you to be a little more gracious ­the man has some spirit, you know!”

So when they got into the library, and she began to pour out the tea for them, she made conversation.  But Tristram’s teeth were set, and a steely light began to grow in his blue eyes.

She looked so astonishingly alluring there in her well-fitting, blue serge, traveling dress, yet he might not even kiss her white, slender hand!  And there was a whole week before the wedding!  And after it? ­would she keep up this icy barrier between them?  If so ­but he refused to think of it!

He noticed that she wore his engagement ring only, on her left hand, and that the right one was ringless, nor had she a brooch or any other jewel.  He felt glad ­he would be able to give her everything.  His mother had been so splendid about the family jewels, insisting upon handing them over, and even in the short time one or two pieces had been reset, the better to please the presumably modern taste of the new bride of the Tancreds.  These, and the wonderful pearls, her uncle’s gift, were waiting for her, up in her sitting-room.

“I think I will go and rest now until dinner,” she said, and forced a smile as she moved towards the door.

It was the first time Tristram had ever seen her smile, and it thrilled him.  He had the most frantic longing to take her in his arms and kiss her, and tell her he was madly in love with her, and wanted her never to be out of his sight.

But he let her pass out, and, turning round, he found Francis Markrute pouring out some liqueur brandy from a wonderful, old, gold-chased bottle, which stood on a side-table with its glasses.  He filled two, and handed one to Tristram, while he quoted Doctor Johnson with an understanding smile: 

“‘Claret for boys, port for men, but brandy for heroes!’ By Jove! my dear boy,” he said, “you are a hero!”