Sir Everard Kingsland was blazing in the very hottest of the flame when he tore himself forcibly away from the artist and buried himself in his study.  The unutterable degradation of it all, the horrible humiliation that this man and his wife-his-were bound together by some mysterious secret, nearly drove him mad.

“Where there is mystery there must be guilt!” he fiercely thought.  “Nothing under heaven can make it right for a wife to have a secret from her husband.  And she knew it, and concealed it before she married me, and means to deceive me until the end.  In a week her name and that of this low-bred ruffian will be bandied together throughout the country.”

And then, like a man mad indeed, he tore up and down the apartment, his hands clinched, his face ghastly, his eyes bloodshot.  And then all doubts and fears were swept away, and love rushed back in an impetuous torrent, and he knew that to lose her were ten thousand times worse than death.

“My beautiful! my own! my darling!  May Heaven pity us both! for be your secret what it may, I can not lose you-I can not!  Life without you were tenfold worse than the bitterest death!  My own poor girl!  I know she suffers, too, for this miserable secret, this sin of others-for such it must be.  She looked up in my face with truthful, innocent eyes, and told me she never saw this man until she met him that day in the library, and I know she spoke the truth!  My love, my wife!  You asked me to trust you, and I thrust you aside!  I spoke and acted like a brute!  I will trust you!  I will wait!  I will never doubt you again, my own beloved bride!”

And then, in a paroxysm of love and remorse, the young husband strode out of the library and upstairs to his wife’s room.  He found her alone, sitting by the window, in her loose white morning-robe, a book lying idly on her knee, herself whiter than the dress she wore.  She was not reading, the dark eyes looked straight before them with an unutterable pathos that it wrung his heart to see.

“My love! my life!” He had her in his strong arms, strained to his breast as if he never meant to let her go.  “My own dear Harrie!  Can you ever forgive me for the brutal words I used-for the brutal way I acted?”

“My Everard! my beloved husband!  My darling! my darling!  You are not-you will not be angry with your poor little Harrie?”

“I could not, my life!  What is the world worth to us if we can not love and trust?  I do love you, God alone knows how well!  I will trust you, though all the world should rise up against you!”

“Thank Heaven! thank Heaven!  Everard, dearest, I can not tell you-I can not-how miserable I have been!  If I lost your love I should die!  Trust me, my husband-trust me!  Love me!  I have no one left in the wide world but you!”

She broke down in a wild storm of womanly weeping.  He held her in silence-the hysterics did her good.  He only knew that he loved her with a passionate, consuming love, and not ten million secrets could keep them apart.

Presently she raised her head and looked at him.

“Everard, have you-have you seen that man?”

His heart contracted with a sudden sharp pang, but he strove to restrain himself and be calm.

“Parmalee?  Yes, Harrie; I left him not an hour ago.”

“And he-Everard-for God’s sake-

“He told me nothing, Harrie.  You and he keep your secrets well.  He told me nothing, and he is gone.  He will never come back here more.”

He looked at her keenly, suspiciously, as he said it.  Alas! the intermittent fever was taking its hot fit again.  But she dropped her face on his shoulder and hid it.

“Has he left the village, Everard?” very faintly.

“I can not say.  I only know I have forbidden him this place,” he replied.  “Harrie, Harrie, my little wife!  You are very merciless!  You are torturing me, and I-I would die to save you an instant’s pain!”

At that eloquent cry she slipped out of his arms and fell on her knees before him, her clasped hands hiding her face.

“May God grant me a short life!” was her frenzied cry, “for I never can tell you-never, Everard, not on my dying bed-the secret I have sworn to keep!”

“Sworn to keep!” It flashed upon him like a revelation.  “Sworn to whom? to your father, Harrie?”

“Do not ask me!  I can tell you nothing-I dare not!  I am bound by an awful vow!  And, oh, I think I am the most wretched creature in the wide world!”

He raised her up; he kissed the white, despairing face again and again-a rain of rapturous kisses.  A ton weight seemed suddenly lifted off his heart.

“I see it all,” he cried-“I see it all now!  Fool that I was not to understand sooner.  There was some mystery, some guilt, perhaps, in Captain Hunsden’s life, and he revealed it to you on his death-bed, and made you swear to keep his secret.  Am I not right?”

She did not look up.  He could feel her shivering from head to foot.

“Yes, Everard.”

“And this man has in some way found it out, and wishes to trade upon it, to extort money from you?  I have often heard of such things.  Am I right again?”

“Yes, Everard,” very faint and sad.

“Then, my own dearest, leave me to deal with him; see him and fear him no more.  I will seek him out.  I will not ask to know it.  I will pay him his price and send him about his business.”

He rose as he spoke.  But Harriet clung to him with a strange, white face.

“No, no, no!” she cried.  “It would not do.  You could not satisfy him.  You don’t know-” She stopped distractedly.  “Oh, Everard, I can’t explain.  You are all kindness, all generosity, all goodness; but I must settle with this man myself.  Don’t go near him-don’t ask to see him.  It could do no good.”

“I am not right, then, after all.  The secret is yours, not your father’s?”

“Do not ask me!  If the sin is not mine, the atonement-the bitter atonement-is, at least.  Everard, look at me-see!  I love you with all my heart.  I would not tell you a lie.  I never committed a deed, I never indulged a thought of my own, you are not free to know.  I never saw this man until that day in the library.  Oh, believe this and trust me, and don’t ask me to break my oath!”

“I will not!  I believe you; I trust you.  I ask no more.  Get rid of this man, and be happy once again.  We will not even talk of it longer; and-will you come with me to my mother’s, Harrie?  I dine there, you know, to-day.”

“My head aches.  Not to-day, I think.  What time will you return?”

“Before ten.  And, as I have a little magisterial business to transact down in the village, it is time I was off.  Adieu, my own love!  Forget the harsh words, and be my own happy, radiant, beautiful bride once more.”

She lifted her face and smiled-a smile as wan and fleeting as moonlight on snow.

Sir Everard hastened to his room to dress, striving with all his might to drive every suspicion out of his mind.

And she-she flung herself on the sofa, face downward, and lay there as if she never cared to rise again.

“Papa, papa!” she wailed, “what have you done-what have you done?”

All that day Lady Kingsland kept her room.  Her maid brought her what she wanted.  Sir Everard returned at the appointed hour, looking gloomy and downcast.

His evening at his mother’s had not been a pleasant one-that was evident.  Perhaps some vague hint of the darkening mystery had already reached The Grange.

“My mother feels rather hurt, Harrie,” he said, somewhat coldly, “that you did not accompany me.  She is unable to call on you, owing to a severe cold.  Mildred is absorbed in waiting upon her, and desires to see you exceedingly.  I promised them we would both dine there tomorrow and spend the evening.”

“As you please, Everard,” she said, wearily.  “It is all the same to me.”

She descended to breakfast next morning carefully dressed to meet the fastidious eye of her husband.  But she ate nothing.  A gloomy presentiment of impending evil weighed down her heart.  Her husband made little effort to rouse her-the contagious gloom affected him, too.

“It is the weather, I dare say,” he remarked, looking out at the bleak, wintery day, the leaden sky, the wailing wind.  “This February gloom is enough to give a man the megrims.  I must face it, too, for to-day I ’meet the captains at the citadel’-that is to say, I promised to ride over to Major Warden’s about noon.  You will be ready, Harrie, when I return to accompany me to The Grange?”

She promised, and he departed; and then Lady Kingsland ascended to her own apartment.

While she stood there, gazing at the gray desolation of the February morning, there was a soft tap at the door.

“Come in!” she said, thinking it her maid; and the door opened, and Sybilla Silver entered.

Lady Kingsland faced round and looked at her.  How handsome she was!  That was her first involuntary thought.  Her sweeping black robes fell around her tall, regal figure with queenly grace, the black eyes sparkled with living light, a more vivid scarlet than usual lighted up each dusky cheek.  She looked gloriously beautiful standing there.  Mr. Parmalee would surely have been dazzled had he seen her.

There was a moment’s pause.  The two women eyed each other as accomplished swordsmen may on the eve of a duel.  Very pale, very proud, looked my lady.  She disliked and distrusted this brilliant, black-eyed Miss Silver, and Miss Silver knew it well.

“You wish to speak with me, Miss Silver?” my lady said, in her most superb manner.

“Yes, my lady-most particularly, and quite alone.  I beg your pardon, but your maid is not within hearing, I trust?”

“We are quite alone,” very coldly.  “Speak out; no one can overhear you.”

“I do not care for myself,” Sybilla said, her glittering black eyes meeting the proud gray ones.  “It is for your sake, my lady.”

“For my sake!” in haughty amaze.  “You can have nothing to say to me, Miss Silver, the whole world may not overhear.  If you intend to be impertinent, I shall order you out of the room.”

“One moment, my lady; you go too fast.  The whole world may not overhear the message Mr. Parmalee sends you by me.”

“Ah!” my lady recoiled as though an adder had stung her-“always that man!  Speak out, then”-turning swiftly upon her husband’s protegee-“what is the message this man sends me by you?”

“That if you do not meet him within two days, he will sell your secret to the highest bidder.”

Sybilla delivered, word for word, the words of the American-cruelly, slowly, significantly-looking her still straight in the eyes.  Those clear gray eyes flashed with a fierce, defiant light.

“You know all?” she cried.

Sybilla Silver bowed her head.

“I know all,” she answered.

Dead silence fell.  White as a dead woman, Lady Kingsland stood, her eyes ablaze with fierce, consuming fire.  Sybilla made a step forward, sunk down before her, and lifted her hand to her lips.

“He told me all, my dear lady; but your secret is safe with me.  Sybilla will be your true and faithful, though humble, friend, if you will let her.  Dear Lady Kingsland, don’t look at me with that stony, angry face.  I have no wish but to serve you.”

The gracious speech met with but an ungracious return.  My lady snatched her hand away, as though from a snake, and gazed at her with flashing eyes of scorn and distrust.

“What are you to this man, Miss Silver?” she asked.  “Why should he tell you?”

“I am his plighted wife,” replied Sybilla, trying to call up a conscious blush.

“Ah, I see!” my lady said, scornfully.  “Permit me to congratulate you on the excellent execution your black eyes have wrought.  You are a very clever girl, Miss Silver, and I think I understand you thoroughly.  I am only surprised you did not carry your discovery straight to Sir Everard Kingsland.”

“Your ladyship is most unjust,” Sybilla said, turning away, “unkind and cruel.  I have delivered my message, and I will go.”

“Wait one moment,” my lady said, in her clear sweet voice, her proud face gleaming with a cynical smile.  “Tomorrow evening it will be impossible for me to see Mr. Parmalee-there is to be a dinner-party at the house-during the day still more impossible.  Since he commands me to see him, I will do so to-night, and throw over my other engagements.  At eight this evening I will be in the Beech Walk, and alone.  Let Mr. Parmalee come to me there.”

A gleam of diabolical triumph lighted up the great black eyes of Sybilla, but the profound bow she made concealed it.

“I will tell him, my lady,” she said, “and he will be there without fail.”

She quitted the room, closed the door, and looked back at it as Satan may have looked back at Eden after vanquishing Eve.

“My triumph begins,” she said to herself.  “I have caught you nicely this time, my lady.  You and Mr. Parmalee will not be alone in the Beech Walk to-night.”

Left to herself, Harriet stood for a moment motionless.

“She, too,” she murmured, “my arch-enemy!  Oh, my God, help me to bear it-help me to keep the horrible truth from the husband I love!  She will not tell him.  She knows he would never endure her from the hour she would make the revelation; and that thought alone restrains her.  It will kill me-this agonizing fear and horror!  And better so-better to die now, while he loves me, than live to be loathed when he discovers the truth!”

Sir Everard Kingsland, riding home in the yellow, wintery sunset, found my lady lying on a lounge in her boudoir, her maid beside her, bathing her forehead with eau-de-Cologne.

“Headache again, Harrie?” he said.  “You are growing a complete martyr to that feminine malady of late.  I had hoped to find you dressed and ready to accompany me to The Grange.”

“I am sorry, Everard, but this evening it is impossible.  Make my excuses to her ladyship, and tell her I hope to see her soon.”

She did not look up as she said it, and her husband, stooping, imprinted a kiss on the colorless cheek.

“My poor, pale girl!  I will send Edwards with an apology to The Grange, and remain at home with you.”

“No!” Harriet cried, hastily; “not on any account.  You must not disappoint your mother, Everard; you must go.  There, good-bye!  It is time you were dressing.  Don’t mind me; I will be better when you return.”

“I feel as though I ought not to leave you to-night,” he said.  “It seems heartless, and you ill.  I had better send Edwards and the apology.”

“You foolish boy!” She looked up at him and smiled, with eyes full of tears.  “I will be better alone and quiet.  Sleep and solitude will quite restore me.  Go!  Go!  You will be late, and my lady dislikes being kept waiting.”

He kissed her and went, casting one long, lingering backward look at the wife he loved.  And with a pang bitterer than death came the remembrance afterward of how she had urged him to leave her that night.

Thus they parted-to look into each other’s eyes no more, in love and trust for a dark and tragic time.

Sybilla Silver, standing at the house door, was gazing out, at the yellow February sun sinking pale and watery into the livid horizon tine, as the baronet ran down-stairs, drawing on his gloves.  He paused, with his usual courtesy, to speak to his dependent as he went by.

“The sky yonder looks ominous,” he said, “and this wailing, icy blast is the very desolation of desolation.  There is a storm brewing.”

Miss Silver’s black eyes gleamed, and her white teeth showed in a sinister smile.

“A storm?” she repeated.  “Yes, I think there is, and you will be caught in it, Sir Everard, if you stay late.”