Now if the evening passed with pain and unrest for the bride and bridegroom, it had quite another aspect for Francis Markrute and Lady Ethelrida!  He was not placed by his hostess to-night at dinner, but when the power of manipulating circumstances with skill is in a man, and the desire to make things easy to be manipulated is in a woman, they can spend agreeable and numerous moments together.

So it fell about that without any apparent or pointed detachment from her other guests Lady Ethelrida was able to sit in one of the embrasures of the windows in, the picture gallery, whither the party had migrated to-night, and talk to her interesting new friend ­for that he was growing into a friend she felt.  He seemed so wonderfully understanding, and was so quiet and subtle and undemonstrative, and, underneath, you could feel his power and strength.

It had been his insidious suggestion, spread among the company, which had caused them to be in the picture gallery to-night, instead of in one of the great drawing-rooms.  For in a very long narrow room it was much easier to separate people, he felt.

“Of course this was not built at the time the house was, in about 1670,” Lady Ethelrida said.  “It was added by the second Duke, who was Ambassador to Versailles in the time of Louis XV, and who thought he would like a ‘galerie des glaces’ in imitation of the one there.  And then, when the walls were up, he died, and it was not decorated until thirty-five years later, in the Regent’s time, and it was turned into a picture gallery then.”

“People’s brands of individuality in their houses are so interesting,” Francis Markrute said.  “I believe Wrayth is a series of human fancies, from the Norman Castle upwards, is it not?  I have never been there.”

“Oh!  Wrayth is much more interesting than this,” she answered.  “Parts of it are so wonderfully old; there are stone floors in the upper rooms in one of the inner courtyards.  They did not suffer, you see, from the hateful Puritans, because the then Tancred was only an infant when the civil war began; and his mother was a Frenchwoman, and they stayed in France all the time, and only came back when Charles II returned.  He married a Frenchwoman, too.  She was a wonderful person and improved many things.  Wrayth has two long galleries and a chapel of Henry the Seventh’s time, and numbers of staircases in unexpected places, and then a fine suite of state rooms, built on by Adam, and then the most awful Early-Victorian imitation Gothic wing and porch which one of those dreadful people, who spoilt such numbers of places, added in 1850.”

“It sounds wonderful,” said the financier.

“Lots of it is very shabby, of course, because Tristram’s father was always very hard up; and nothing much had been done either in the grandfather’s time ­except the horrible wing.  But with enough money to get it right again, I cannot imagine anything more lovely than it could be.”

“It will be a great amusement to them in the coming year to do it all, then.  Zara has the most beautiful taste, Lady Ethelrida.  When you know her better I think you will like my niece.”

“But I do now,” she exclaimed.  “Only I do wish she did not look so sad.  May I ask it because of our bargain? “ ­and she paused with gentle timidity ­“Will you tell me? ­do you know of any special reason to-day to make her unhappy?  I saw her face at dinner to-night, and all the while she talked there was an anxious, haunted look in her eyes.”

Francis Markrute frowned for a moment; he had been too absorbed in his own interests to have taken in anything special about his niece.  If there were something of the sort in her eyes it could only have one source ­anxiety about the health of the boy Mirko.  He himself had not heard anything.  Then his lightning calculations decided him to tell Lady Ethelrida nothing of this.  Zara’s anxiety would mean the child’s illness, and illness, Doctor Morley had warned him, could have only one end.  He wished the poor little fellow no harm, but, on the other hand, he had no sentiment about him.  If he were going to die then the disgrace would be wiped away and need never be spoken about.  So he answered slowly: 

“There is something which troubles her now and then.  It will pass presently.  Take no notice of it.”

So Lady Ethelrida, as mystified as ever, turned the conversation.

“May I give you the book to-morrow morning before we go to shoot?” the financier asked after a moment.  “It is your birthday, I believe, and all your guests on that occasion are privileged to lay some offering at your feet.  I wanted to do so this afternoon after tea, but I was detained playing bridge with your father.  I have several books coming to-morrow that I do so want you to have.”

“It is very kind of you.  I would like to show you my sitting-room, in the south wing.  Then you could see that they would have a comfortable home!”

“When may I come?”

This was direct, and Lady Ethelrida felt a piquant sensation of interest.  She had never in her life made an assignation with a man.  She thought a moment.

“They will start only at eleven to-morrow, because the first covert is at a corner of the park, quite near, and if it is fine we are all coming out with you until luncheon which we have in the house; then you go to the far coverts in the motors.  When, I wonder, would be best?” ­It seemed so nice to leave it to him.

“You breakfast downstairs at half-past nine, like this morning?”

“Yes, I always do, and the girls will and almost every one, because it is my birthday.”

“Then if I come exactly at half-past ten will you be there?”

“I will try.  But how will you know the way?”

“I have a bump of locality which is rather strong, and I know the windows from the outside.  You remember you showed them to me to-day as we walked to the tower.”

Lady Ethelrida experienced a distinct feeling of excitement over this innocent rendezvous.

“There is a staircase ­but no!” ­and she laughed ­“I shall tell you no more.  It will be a proof of your sagacity to find the clue to the labyrinth.”

“I shall be there,” he said, and once again he looked into her sweet, gray eyes; and she rose with a slightly faster movement than usual and drew him to where there were more of her guests.

Meanwhile Lord Elterton was losing no time in his pursuit of Zara.  He had been among the first to leave the dining-room, several paces in front of Tristram and the others, and instantly came to her and suggested a tour of the pictures.  He quite agreed with the financier ­these long, narrow rooms were most useful!

And Zara, thankful to divert her mind, went with him willingly, and soon found herself standing in front of an immense canvas given by the Regent, of himself, to the Duke’s grandfather, one of his great friends.

“I have been watching you all through dinner,” Lord Elterton said, “and you looked like a beautiful storm:  your dress the gray clouds, and your eyes the thunder ones ­threatening.”

“One feels like a storm sometimes,” said Zara.

“People are so tiresome, as a rule; you can see through them in half an hour.  But no one could ever guess about what you were thinking.”

“No one would want to ­if they knew.”

“Is it so terrible as that?” And he smiled ­she must be diverted.  “I wish I had met you long ago, because, of course, I cannot tell you all the things I now want to ­Tristram would be so confoundedly jealous ­like he was this afternoon.  It is the way of husbands.”

Zara did not reply.  She quite agreed to this, for of the jealousy of husbands she had experience!

“Now if I were married,” Lord Elterton went on, “I would try to make my wife so happy, and would love her so much she would never give me cause to be jealous.”

“Love!” said Zara.  “How you talk of love ­and what does it mean?  Gratification to oneself, or to the loved person?”

“Both,” said Lord Elterton, and looked down so devotedly into her eyes that the old Duke, who was near, with Laura, thought it was quite time the young man’s innings should be over!

So he joined them.

“Come with me, Zara, while I show you some of Tristram’s ancestors on his mother’s side.”

And he placed her arm in his gallantly, and led her away to the most interesting pictures.

“Well, ’pon my soul!” he said, as they went along.  “Things are vastly changed since my young days.  Here, Tristram ­” and he beckoned to his nephew who was with Lady Anningford ­“come here and help me to show your wife some of your forbears.”  And then he went on with his original speech.  “Yes, as I was saying, things are vastly changed since I brought Ethelrida’s dear mother back here, after our honeymoon! ­a month in those days!  I would have punched any other young blood’s head, who had even looked at her!  And you philander off with that fluffy, little empty-pate, Laura, and Arthur Elterton makes love to your bride!  A pretty state of things, ’pon my soul!” And he laughed reprovingly.

Tristram smiled with bitter sarcasm as he answered, “You were absurdly old-fashioned, Uncle.  But perhaps Aunt Corisande was different to the modern woman.”

Zara did not speak.  The black panther’s look, on its rare day of slumberous indifference when it condescends to come to the front of the cage, grew in her eyes, but the slightest touch could make her snarl.

“Oh! you must not ever blame the women,” the Duke ­this preux chevalier ­said.  “If they are different it is the fault of the men.  I took care that my duchess wanted me!  Why, my dear boy, I was jealous of even her maid, for at least a year!”

And Tristram thought to himself that he went further than that and was jealous of even the air Zara breathed!

“You must have been awfully happy, Uncle,” he said with a sigh.

But Zara spoke never a word.  And the Duke saw that there was something too deeply strained between them, for his kindly meant persiflage to do any good; so he turned to the pictures, and drew them into lighter things; and the moment he could, Tristram rejoined Lady Anningford by one of the great fires.

Laura Highford, left alone with Lord Elterton up at the end of the long picture gallery, felt she must throw off some steam.  She could not keep from the subject which was devouring her; she knew now she had made an irreparable mistake in what she had said to Tristram in the afternoon, and how to repair it she did not know at present, but she must talk to some one.

“You will have lots of chance before a year is out, Arthur,” she said with a bitter smile.  “You need not be in such a hurry!  That marriage won’t last more than a few months ­they hate each other already.”

“You don’t say so!” said Lord Elterton, feigning innocence.  “I thought they were a most devoted couple!” ­Laura would be a safe draw, and although he would not believe half he should hear, out of the bundle of chaff he possibly could collect some grains of wheat which might come in useful.

“Devoted couple!” she laughed.  “Tristram is by no means the first with her.  There is a very handsome foreign gentleman, looking like Romeo, or Rizzio ­”

“Or any other ‘O,’” put in Lord Elterton.

“Exactly ­in whom she is much more interested.  Poor Tristram!  He has plenty to discover, I fear.”

“How do you come to know about it?  You are a wonder, Lady Highford ­always so full of interesting information!”

“I happened to see them at Waterloo together ­evidently just arrived from somewhere ­and Tristram thought she was safe in Paris!  Poor dear!”

“You have told him about it, of course?” ­anxiously.

“I did just give him a hint.”

“That was wise.”  And Lord Elterton smiled blandly and she did not see the twinkle in his eye.  “He was naturally grateful?” he asked sympathetically.

“Not now, perhaps, but some day he will be!”

Laura’s light hazel eyes flashed, and Lord Elterton laughed again as he answered lightly,

“There certainly is a poor spirit in the old boy if he doesn’t feel under a lifelong obligation to you for your goodness.  I should, if it were me. ­Look, though, we shall have to go now; they are beginning to say good night.”

And as they found the others he thought to himself, “Well, men may be poachers like I am, but I am hanged if they are such weasels as women!”

Lady Anningford joined Lady Ethelrida that night in her room, after they had seen Zara to hers, and they began at once upon the topic which was thrilling them all.

“There is something the matter, Ethelrida, darling,” Lady Anningford said.  “I have talked to Tristram for a long time to-night, and, although he was bravely trying to hide it, he was bitterly miserable; spoke recklessly of life one minute, and resignedly the next; and then asked me, with an air as if in an abstract discussion, whether Hector and Theodora were really happy ­because she had been a widow.  And when I said, ‘Yes, ideally so,’ and that they never want to be dragged away from Bracondale, he said, so awfully sadly, ’Oh, I dare-say; but then they have children.’  It is too pitiful to hear him, after only a week!  What can it be?  What can have happened in the time?”

“It is not since, Anne,” Ethelrida said, beginning to unfasten her dress.  “It was always like that.  She had just the look in her eyes the night we all first met her, at Mr. Markrute’s at dinner ­that strange, angry, pained, sorrowful look, as though she were a furnace of resentment against some fate.  I remember an old colored picture we had on a screen ­it is now in the housekeeper’s room ­it was one of those badly-drawn, lurid scenes of prisoners being dragged off to Siberia in the snow, and there was a woman in it who had just been separated from her husband and baby and who had exactly the same expression.  It used to haunt me as a child, and Mamma had it taken out of the old nursery.  And Zara’s eyes haunt me now in the same way.”

“She never had any children, I suppose?” asked Lady Anningford.

“Never that I heard of ­and she is so young; only twenty-three now.”

“Well, it is too tragic!  And what is to be done?  Can’t you ask the uncle?  He must know.”

“I did, to-night, Anne ­and he answered, so strangely, that ’yes, there was something which at times troubled her, but it would pass.’”

“Good gracious!” said Anne.  “It can’t be a hallucination.  She is not crazy, is she?  That would be worse than anything.”

“Oh, no!” cried Ethelrida, aghast.  “It is not that in the least, thank goodness!”

“Then perhaps there are some terrible scenes, connected with her first husband’s murder, which she can’t forget.  The Crow told me Count Shulski was shot at Monte Carlo, in a fray of some sort.”

“That must be it, of course!” said Ethelrida, much relieved.  “Then she will get over it in time.  And surely Tristram will be able to make her love him, and forget them.  I do feel better about it now, Anne, and shall be able to sleep in peace.”

So they said good night, and separated ­comforted.

But the object of their solicitude did not attempt to get into her bed when she had dismissed her maid.  She sat down in one of the big gilt William-and-Mary armchairs, and clasped her hands tightly, and tried to think.

Things were coming to a crisis with her.  Destiny had given her another cross to bear, for suddenly this evening, as the Duke spoke of his wife, she had become conscious of the truth about herself:  she was in love with her husband.  And she herself had made it impossible that he could ever come back to her.  For, indeed, the tables were turned, with one of those ironical twists of Fate.

And she questioned herself ­Why did she love him?  She had reproached him on her wedding night, when he had told her he loved her, because in her ignorance she felt then it could only be a question of sense.  She had called him an animal! she remembered; and now she had become an animal herself!  For she could prove no loftier motive for her emotion towards him than he had had for her then:  they knew one another no better.  It had not been possible for her passion to have arisen from the reasons she remembered having hurled at him as the only ones from which true love could spring, namely, knowledge, and tenderness, and devotion.  It was all untrue; she understood it now.  Love ­deep and tender ­could leap into being from the glance of an eye.

They were strangers to each other still, and yet this cruel, terrible thing called love had broken down all the barriers in her heart, melted the disdainful ice, and turned it to fire.  She felt she wanted to caress him, and take away the stern, hard look from his face.  She wanted to be gentle, and soft, and loving ­to feel that she belonged to him.  And she passionately longed for him to kiss her and clasp her to his heart.  Whether he had consented originally to marry her for her uncle’s money or not, was a matter, now, of no further importance.  He had loved her after he had seen her, at all events, and she had thrown it all away.  Nothing but a man’s natural jealousy of his possessions remained.

“Oh, why did I not know what I was doing!” she moaned to herself, as she rocked in the chair.  “I must have been very wicked in some former life, to be so tortured in this!”

But it was too late now.  She had burnt her ships, and nothing remained to her but her pride.  Since she had thrown away joy she could at least keep that and never let him see how she was being punished.

And to-night it was her turn to look in anguish at the closed door, and to toss in restless pain of soul, on her bed.