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 CHAPTER XXXVI.
THE TENANT OF THE DOWER HOUSE.

Never since Clarice, Lady Alden, died had Kenelm Eyrle given so
much thought to another woman. The beautiful, sorrowful Spanish
face did not haunt him as does the face of one most dearly loved;
but he thought of, wondered at it, and would have given much to
understand the sorrow that had made her a prisoner in her own
house.
His time was fully occupied. Lady Hermione proved herself to be
an excellent woman of business; the poor on the Alden estate had
never been so well looked after, the tenants had never been more
prosperous, there had never been greater satisfaction than under
her gentle rule. Yet there was much in which she required Kenelm’s
aid; there were some matters of business that only a gentleman
could arrange. During that time they became more intimate than they
had been even as children or as playfellows, and then Lady
Hermione saw, with astonishment, how firmly rooted was that one
idea in Kenelm’s mind—the idea of bringing the murderer of the
woman he loved to justice. She was astonished at its tenacity; he
seemed to live, to exist for no other aim than that. Not that it was
often discussed between them, but from little things he said, from
remarks he made on various matters not even connected with it, she
saw it was the Alpha and Omega of his thoughts, desires and
actions.
He told Lady Hermione all about the tenant of the Dower House,
and she was much interested in the story.
“I should like to call upon her,” said Lady Hermione, “for I agree
with you, it is no common sorrow that tires one of life at her age. Ask
her if she would like to see me.”
 He hardly knew why in his heart he felt so grateful to Lady Alden
for her kindness.
It was not long before he found there was need for a second visit
to Mrs. Payton; there was to be a contract drawn up respecting the
window, which they both had to sign. Then he mentioned Lady
Alden’s desire to know and be of service to her, but, to his surprise,
the beautiful Spanish face flushed deeply, the proud, sweet lips
quivered, and Mrs. Payton turned quickly away from him.
“No,” she replied, abruptly, at last, “it cannot be, Mr. Eyrle. I am
deeply, truly grateful to Lady Alden for her kindness; tell her so. But
ask her to pardon me; that I can receive no visitors; that, being
innocent, I must yet live as though I were guilty; that, being free from
guilt, I must pay the price of sin. I cannot see her.”
He wondered at her agitation, at the emotion that softened her
face and made it so wondrously fair.
“What has this woman done?” he wondered to himself. “What is
her story?”
She seemed annoyed at having been betrayed into showing such
agitation. She took up the agreement he had brought and read it
through, but he saw that her hands trembled so violently she could
with difficulty hold the paper.
“What quaint names we both have, Mr. Eyrle,” she said, as she
took up the pen to sign the paper; “mine is Juliet.”
“A beautiful name,” he replied; “one of Shakespeare’s sweetest
and most gentle heroines. The very sound of it is to me like a strain
of music.”
“It has been so travestied,” she interrupted, “it seems to me that
the name Juliet instantly brings to mind a love-sick girl.”
He laughed.
“At least,” he said, “that could never apply to you.”
There was the faintest ripple of a smile on her face.
 “No! a cold, hard name would have suited me best,” she said.
“Yet I have had a cruel love and a cruel awakening.”
He saw that she was speaking to herself, rather than to him.
“You have a strange, old-world name,” she said. “I see it here—
Kenelm. It is one that has been in use in your family for generations
back, I suppose?”
He was struck by the musical way in which she pronounced it.
There was a pretty, piquant, foreign accent about her English that
was very charming.
“Pardon me,” he said, abruptly, “are you an English lady?”
Again the hot flush rippled over her face, disturbing its pale quiet,
as a warm sunbeam disturbs a deep-sleeping lake, flushing it into
greater beauty and warmer life.
“I am not English,” she replied. “I wish I were; I should not then
be so quick to feel, so sensitive, so keen of anguish. My mother was
a Spanish lady; my first few happiest years were spent in Spain.”
“I thought so,” said Mr. Eyrle, and then she looked frankly at him.
“I wonder how it is,” she said, “that I seem too ready to place
such confidence in you; there must be a mystery about it. I say so
little to others.”
“You see no one else,” he replied, touched and flattered by the
trust she had in him.
“Even when I did, I had not that instinctive faith in them that
seems to spring naturally to you. One of my old theories used to be
that soul recognized soul, even as body recognizes body.”
“Why do you call it an old theory?” he asked. “To me, it seems a
very feasible one.”
“Because I trusted to it once too often—once the eyes of soul
saw falsely.”
“That happens to most of us,” he said, for she had paused
abruptly.
 “To none, to none so cruelly as to me. You talked to me the other
day about a passion flower. Do you know, I might take the passion
flower as an emblem of my life? No other expresses it half so well.”
Her dark eyes were filled with indignant tears. She looked a very
Niobe as she stood before him with clasped hands and quivering
lips.
“I have read all the cant of the day,” she continued, passionately,
“about woman’s rights, and my soul has risen in hot rebellion against
it. I want no voice in Parliament. I never care to see women aping
the dress, the manners, the habits of men. But, oh! for the time when
women shall meet with justice, with fair play, with protection, instead
of tyranny. I should like to ask the wise and honored of the land
when that time is coming?”
Her sudden, passionate vehemence carried him away. Fire from
a rock or stone could not have astounded him more than this
vehemence from a woman whom he had always looked upon as
colder than frost or snow.
“The mission of women should be to protect women,” he said.
She laughed scornfully.
“It should be, but what is the reality? Oppression where it is
possible, tyranny where it is feasible, ill-treatment, unkindness
everywhere.”
“No, not everywhere,” he interrupted. “Now you are unjust, Mrs.
Payton; there are men in whom the true spirit of chivalry yet lives.
There are men who would die for a woman’s smile—I would have
done it myself. There are men who ask from God no higher, nobler
mission than to make the woman they love happy. Do you not
believe this?”
The fire in her dark eyes was dimmed by a rain of tears.
“I can believe it of you,” she said, “but not of many. I have been
the victim of the oppression and injustice of men; you know nothing
of it. Some time, later on, when you know my story, you will not
wonder that I am so sadly in earnest. The cruelty of one man has
overshadowed my life; there are many who have been wronged as
much as I have been.”
Then she became her own cold self again, half seeming to repent
of the confidence she had placed in him. He understood, when those
moods came over her, that it was useless to remain or try to win her
further confidence.
The day came when, walking by her side through the large
gardens of the Dower House, he told her the story of his murdered
love. She was strangely interested.
“And you live but to avenge her?” she said.
“That is my one object in life,” he replied.
“And when you have done that?” she continued.
“I care not,” he interrupted. “Perhaps you can understand the love
that fills a man’s whole heart, that burns his whole soul, that destroys
all else in him! Such a love as that was mine for the beautiful girl a
murderer’s hand laid in an early grave.”
“You are a hero,” she said, “one of the heroes of old come back
again. How I shall admire you now, how I shall reverence you! A man
in the prime of life, with health, strength, wealth and everything that
can make life bright, content to care only for the memory of a dead
love! I thought such men lived only in books. I am better for having
met one.”
 CHAPTER XXXVII.
FAIR WOMEN.

Praise from a woman’s lips is sweet to man. As a matter of

course, when this incense is offered they look superior and pretend
that it is not needful, yet it is none the less agreeable. Kenelm Eyrle
had never known how sweet it was. The only woman he had ever
loved, Clarice, had not returned his affection, and had never,
perhaps, in the whole course of her life uttered one word of praise or
homage to him. So that it was pleasant to him to remember how the
beautiful Spanish face had glowed with warmest admiration, how the
dark eyes had grown brighter as she had called him a hero.
Of course it was all nonsense—nothing but woman’s nonsense—
this exaggerated manner of looking at everything—yet it was
undeniably pleasant to remember. It did not prevent him from looking
forward with something of delight to his next visit to the Dower
House. He was not in love with Mrs. Payton, he whose heart lay in
Clarice’s grave; he was not in love with her, but he found the
companionship of a beautiful and intellectual woman very sweet.
The windows formed a very agreeable pretext for constant
visiting. They were very handsome—they were his own design—and
he liked to watch the progress made in the work. She said no more
about herself. She did not offer, as she had once suggested, to tell
him her story. She seemed to have forgotten the half-violent moods,
the strange impulses that had led her to say so much to him. She
talked no more of the injustice done to women, of the tyranny of
men. A calm, sweet, tranquil content was coming over her. He
looked at her one day as she stood under the rich, rippling foliage of
the lime trees, a golden light falling on her dark, queenly head and
beautiful face. It was a moment when she had seemingly forgotten
all that made her life dreary. She was watching a bird feed its little
ones, and the smile on her face was open and frank as that of a
child.
“She cannot be more than twenty,” said Kenelm Eyrle to himself.
“There is not the faintest trace of a line on her brow, and her lips are
parted just as are the lips of a child. I thought she was older when I
saw her first. She cannot be more than twenty. Is she a widow? Has
she loved and lost? No; that cannot be. She spoke of unkindness,
cruelty, but not of loss. Can she have been betrayed, as the
youngest and fairest are at times? No; there is a ring on her finger,
and she speaks as one who has been a wife.”
It was a ringing laugh that disturbed his reverie—a light, silvery
sound that startled him more than words could tell. It was long since
he had heard such a sound, long since such a laugh had echoed
through the trees of that silent garden. He looked around in surprise
at her. She blushed and smiled.
“I thought I had forgotten how to laugh,” she said. “I am quite as
much surprised at myself as you can be at me.”
“What was it amused you?” he asked, quietly. And she showed
him the nest with the live little birds in it.
“All the little mouths were open at once,” she said, “and the poor
mother seemed so anxious to fill them. I had not seen such a pretty
sight for years.”
He smiled, too, but it was rather at her childish delight than at
anything else; but as he rode home his thoughts lingered with her.
“What can have happened?” he wondered. “Who can have been
unkind to a creature so loving, so beautiful, so tender?”
That same day he rode over to Aldenmere. The contrast between
these two fair women always amused and pleased him. Lady
Hermione, so sweet, so wise, so womanly, her fair Saxon loveliness
so full of calm and serenity, lofty, polished and graceful. Juliet
Payton, with her dark, glowing beauty all afire, suppressed passion,
genius, poetry, all made subservient to the one thing for which she
cared most—the charm of solitude.
 For the first time since Sir Ronald’s departure, he saw a cloud on
the fair face of the Lady of Aldenmere.
“Have you had news of Sir Ronald?” he said, for knowing how
completely heart and soul were absorbed in her husband, he could
not understand anything else having the power to sadden her.
“No,” she replied, “not news direct. There was a long article in
The Saturday about the expedition, saying it was very probable if
they did all they intended and hoped to do they would not return for
another year and a half yet. Ronald will be quite bronzed and so
greatly changed.”
“Yes; and the prolonged absence, though painful, will do him
good,” said Kenelm, anxious to chase the shadow from that fairest
face. “Is it that which makes you thoughtful, Lady Alden?”
“No,” she replied, “I have been busy all day searching for what is,
I fear, a lost document.”
“What is it?” he asked. “Remember, all your business troubles are
to rest on my shoulders.”
“It is a lease, or agreement, or promise, I cannot tell which,” she
replied. “You have heard, perhaps, of May Thorne, who used to be
waiting maid to poor Clarice?”
“Yes,” he replied, “I remember her.”
“She married an old servant of Sir Ronald’s, a groom. His name
was John Conyers. Sir Ronald, I think, valued him very much.”
“I remember it,” said Kenelm, wondering why Lady Hermione
spoke so anxiously.
“They have been living at a pretty little farm called ‘The Willows.’
You know the place, near Leeholme. They have been there now
nearly three years. But for ‘The Willows’ there are rival claimants.
Peter Gaspin, the son of old farmer Gaspin, tells me Sir Ronald
promised him ‘The Willows’ when his present lease of the ‘Home
Farm’ expires. John Conyers declares there is a written agreement
making over to him ‘The Willows’ for life. I am quite puzzled between
the two.”
 “Rival claimants?” he said. “Ah, well, Lady Hermione, you may be
puzzled, if you will, but I cannot allow you to be troubled. What do
the rivals themselves say?”
“They talk of going to law, and I know how that would vex Ronald.
I want him to find that all has been smooth sailing when he returns
home. I am sure a lawsuit would grieve him. That was not the only
thing that puzzled me.”
“Let me hear all, then I can advise,” said Kenelm.
“John Conyers annoyed me,” she continued. “He spoke as
though Ronald were under some obligation to him—as though he
had some secret influence, knowledge, or power which gave him
some hold over ‘The Willows.’ Now I cannot believe anything of that
kind.”
“Nor can I,” said Kenelm. “I should say myself that Peter Gaspin
has the greatest right to the farm.”
“So I should have thought, but John Conyers and his wife both
assure me most solemnly that somewhere among Sir Ronald’s
papers I shall find a written agreement that they shall have the farm
as long as they live.”
“We must look and see. Of course, if there should be any
document of the kind, it will settle the question without further
trouble.”
And she assented, little dreaming that in doing so she was taking
the first step toward a fatal discovery.
 CHAPTER XXXVIII.
THE DOWER HOUSE WATCHED.

Mr. Gerton, Kenelm Eyrle’s steward, land agent and general

manager, smiled to himself to think how his patron and employer
was gradually falling into a snare.
“He will marry the widow as sure as fate,” he thought to himself,
“and we shall have something like old times at ‘The Towers.’
Mourning all his life for a dead woman who did not care for him is too
ridiculous.”
Often when business required his presence at the Dower House,
Mr. Gerton would plead most pressing engagements, and ask
Kenelm to go in his place, then smile to himself as though he had
done something very clever, for which he ought to be rewarded. He
had all a business man’s contempt for sentiment and romance. He
could understand marrying a handsome woman with a suitable
fortune, who would be likely to do honor to the name she bore, but
he could not understand wasting a life in lamenting and mourning
over a dead love. Kenelm fell very unconsciously into the plot.
Whenever Mr. Gerton asked him to go either to arrange one thing or
another, he went. He went, too, very often when no business called
him, for the purpose of talking to Mrs. Payton. One thing always
amused him: Miss Hanson always received him with such a
welcome, and with such a beaming, kindly smile.
“I am so glad to see you, Mr. Eyrle. Dear me! how pleasant a little
sociability is. I wish my dear young lady could see a little more of the
world, she is so completely alone.”
Kenelm had a shrewd suspicion that if he chose to ask the bright-
eyed little spinster any question, he could hear all she knew of the
other lady’s history. There were times when Miss Hanson seemed
about to confide in him, but he shrank with the delicacy of a true
gentleman from knowing anything of her history until she chose to
confide in him herself. It was not long before he knew more.
One day while reading that fashionable and veracious paper, The
Daily Intelligencer, he saw a paragraph that struck him.
“We are informed,” said that most edifying of journals, “that the
young and beautiful Lady P——, whose trial lately caused so great a
sensation in the fashionable world, has sought and found refuge in
one of the most picturesque parts of the county of B——.”
Kenelm Eyrle smiled to himself, thinking how contemptible was
the custom of seeking out every detail of the life of a woman,
supposed to be public property because she had been forced to
appear before the public.
He remembered Lady P——’s trial; it had been the great
sensation of the day. People had gloated over it, every detail of her
life had been greedily devoured; every word she had spoken had
been reported, the details of her appearance, her dress, her
behavior during the trial had almost made the fortune of the daily
papers. He had read but little of it, though he could not avoid hearing
it continually spoken of. He had even laid the papers down in deep
disgust, thinking to himself that they would not be worth the reading
until all that nonsense was over. That even he himself would be ever
so distantly connected with it did not occur to him.
He was going one bright May morning with some choice flowers
to the Dower House, and when he came to the field he saw a
strange man sitting where he could command a full view of the
entrance. The man raised his head as Kenelm Eyrle passed him; he
gave one keen glance into the handsome, patrician face, then turned
aside.
Mr. Eyrle thought nothing of it; any casual stranger might have
been sitting there; he would never have remembered the
occurrence, but when he came somewhat quickly from the house he
saw the same man hurrying quickly away. And that happened not
once, but several times; it was not always the same man, but,
strange to say, whenever he went to the Dower House there was
always one of these suspicious strangers about. Once when he was
walking by Mrs. Payton’s side in the pretty rose garden, he felt sure
that among the trees in the shrubbery he saw a dark face peering.
He gave a little cry, jumped over the hedge and was just in time to
see a man hastening away through the woods. He would have
followed, but a low cry from Mrs. Payton called him back. In one
moment he was by her side.
“What is it?” she asked. “What made you run away so?”
“I saw some one watching us from behind those trees,” he
replied.
“Watching us,” she repeated, and then, to his surprise, he saw
her face grow deadly pale, and a light not pleasant to see flashed
from her dark eyes.
“Watching us?” she repeated. “Oh, my God! has my foe followed
me even here? Has my enemy found me out? I thought no one
knew.”
She had clasped her hands and stood in the midst of the garden
path, like one who is despairing and distraught.
Her wild appearance startled him.
“You must go,” she cried, “and you must never come here again! I
did wrong to let you come; but you were kind, you spoke kindly to
me, you looked kindly at me, and I forgot that I am doomed to be
hunted even to my death. You must go, and leave me, Mr. Eyrle,
never to return.”
“Nay,” he said, “calm yourself. I shall not leave you. I do not
understand, but most certainly I shall not go away. I will tell you, Mrs.
Payton, what I will do: follow that man, whoever he was, and thrash
him within an inch of his life. I am quite willing to do that, but nothing
else.”
She wrung her hands, with a cry of pain he never forgot.
“You do not understand,” she repeated, “and I forgot. I have only
remembered that you were kind to me, and it was a pleasure to see
you. My doom is on me, Mr. Eyrle, and you cannot save me but by
going away and never coming near me again.”
“I should think myself unworthy of the name of man to leave any
woman in such distress,” he said. “I refuse to leave you—I refuse to
go away, unless, indeed, it be your own personal wish.”
“No, it is not that,” she replied. “I should have been more prudent,
but I did not think; I believed myself so safe here.”
“You are safe,” he repeated, indignantly.
“No, I shall know no safety, no peace, no rest, until I am in my
grave,” she said, mournfully. “My doom is on me—I cannot evade it.”
“Mrs. Payton,” said Kenelm, “I am not what the world calls a
lady’s man, but will you trust me? Will you tell me your story, and let
me see if I can find some means of helping you?”
She looked at him long and mournfully; her dark eyes grew soft
and tender, her beautiful lips quivered.
“No, I will not tell you,” she replied, sadly, “not because I cannot
trust you, but because I will not bring you into conflict with a coward
and villain.”
“I am equal to it,” he said.
“Yes, you are a hero, but you shall risk nothing for me, neither
character, peace nor life.”
“I would risk all for you, Mrs. Payton.”
She had ceased to tremble, and stood before him in all the
dignity of despair. Her voice was like the saddest, sweetest music of
an æolian harp. She held out her hand with a gesture of farewell.
“No,” she said, “the temptation is strong. I have never had a
strong arm to lean on, or a strong heart to trust. I have been alone all
my life. No, you shall risk nothing for me.”
The tears that had filled her dark eyes rained down her face then,
and the sight determined him.
 “You may do as you like, Mrs. Payton, but I refuse to leave you,
trust me or not, as you will. I cannot see a lady in distress and leave
her so.”
“Then I must trust you,” she said. “I must tell you my story, and,
when it is told, perhaps you will turn from me in loathing and
disgust.”
“Never while I live. I believe in you. If there is wrong, it is not of
your doing, and I shall say so before the whole world.”
“How I should have thanked God for a champion like you years
ago,” she said. “Mr. Eyrle, come with me to the house. First let me
ask you, have you never wondered who I am, and why I am here?”
“Yes,” he replied, frankly.
“Then promise me not to hate me when I tell you my real name.”
 CHAPTER XXXIX.
LADY PELHAM.

Many pictures lived in Kenelm Eyrle’s mind, one of the fairest

was that of the balcony, with its twisted pillars and odorous flowers,
where he sat that morning to hear Lady Pelham’s story.
A large laburnum, with drooping, golden tresses, was near them,
in full flower; a lilac, with full, tufted plumes, filled the air with
fragrance; the white acacias were all in bloom; the mavis sang in the
trees; there was a vision of drooping limes and spreading oaks, a
balcony that might have served the “Queen of the Fairies” as a
drawing-room.
“Come with me,” she had said, “and I will tell you my story. Shall
you hate me when you know that I am Lady Pelham?”
If the sky had fallen at his feet he could not have been more
surprised than when she said those words. This beautiful, winsome
creature, whose every frank mood was a fresh charm. Lady Pelham,
the most noted name a short time since in all England. They had
entered the house together, and she had gone at once to Miss
Hanson.
“I want you,” she said, laying her hand on the little spinster’s arm.
“I want you to come and sit with me, while I tell Mr. Eyrle my story.”
The kindly eyes filled at once with tears.
“Oh, my dear, are you going to tell him? I am so glad, so
pleased.”
“I must tell him in self-defense, for I find Sir Alfred’s spies are
here.”
Miss Hanson clasped her hands with a little gesture of dismay.
 “He might have left you in peace. He can have nothing to
complain of. No life could be more quiet.”
“No,” she replied, with a little smile, “that is true. But do you not
understand? He has not ruined me in the eyes of the whole world.
There are many who believe in my innocence, as there are
thousands who believe in my guilt. If anything else could be proved
against me, his case would be clear. I had forgotten that, and have
allowed Mr. Eyrle to come here. My penance must be telling him the
history I fain would have kept from him. Come with me, so if prying
eyes watch our last interview there may be nothing to relate.”
“It shall not be our last interview,” said Kenelm, hotly.
“It must,” she replied, with a smile. “Mr. Eyrle, if you were a wise
man, you would fly from me, a woman whose name has been so
lightly on every foul lip in the land.”
“I believe in you,” he cried, passionately.
“I thank you,” she said, with dignity. “I thank God also that one
loyal English gentleman has been found to stand by me in the hour
of need,” and then she led the way to the balcony, Kenelm and Miss
Hanson following her. She sat down on the pretty, quaint seat,
Kenelm by her side. Miss Hanson stood leaning against the iron rail
of the balcony. There was a faint sound as of summer leaves and
summer music in the air, but when she, in her clear, sweet voice,
with its soft, piquant accent, began her story, they heard nothing
else. They saw nothing else but the beautiful Spanish face, the
indignation that flashed from the dark eyes, the sorrow that quivered
round the red lips. She turned her face to Kenelm; it was to him she
spoke.
“I must tell you something of my early home,” she said, “of my
beautiful Spain, where chivalry lives and where men have not
forgotten how to love and reverence woman; Spain, where the light
lies low on the hills; the home of romance, the very name of which
stirs my heart, as the sound of the trumpet moves the warrior’s soul.
I was born near Granada. As I say the word, there comes to me a
vision of pomegranates and myrtle, of vine-crowned steeples, of
splendor such as you cold Northerners never dreamed of—great
flashes of color, royal sunsets, glorious music—all echoes of Spain
the magnificent.
“My mother was a Spanish lady of high descent; her name, Inez
de Borga, but while she was young her father, one of the proudest
grandees in Spain, lost the whole of his fortune and died of despair.
My mother was left alone in the world, and she married an
Englishman, Captain Lancelot Payton, who held some English
appointment in Granada. They were very happy; my mother was
most lovely, most lovable, and my father the very soul of honor; but a
cruel fever came and took him from us. I was very young, only a
child, but I remember him well. He died and left my mother a small
annuity, which was to cease with her life. So we lived alone in a
pretty little Moorish villa, near Granada. Never were mother and
daughter so happy—she was like my elder sister. She taught me our
own grand, musical tongue; she taught me my father’s language,
pure Saxon-English; she taught me French and Italian. She was
never so happy as when sharing the stores of her rich fancy and
genius with me. She made me an excellent musician and a good
linguist; but that was not all. She taught me—now, mind, I swear to
you, this is true—she taught me to fear God, to love Him, to value
my own soul. She taught me that purity was the highest and noblest
attribute of woman; that honor far outshone nobility; she taught me
that I was only to live for heaven; that the things of this world faded
so quickly away, but that those who lived for God lived for the
highest end of all.”
Her face flushed, a beautiful, tender light came into her eyes.
“I swear she taught me this: that she used to hold me in her
arms, and clasp my hands while she made me say my little prayer to
‘Jesus meek and mild,’ while she told me the grand old Bible stories,
and stories that to me were even sweeter of the God who became a
man. She taught me to begin and end each day with a prayer. She
did her best in her sweet, wise, gentle way to make me good. Dare
any one say that a child so trained was spoiled, as was said of me?
Dare any one accuse my mother of corrupting me? my mother, who
was an angel, and who smiles now among the angels of God? Then
my enemies triumphed over me; they said Spain was the land of
gallantry; they smiled false, devilish smiles and shrugged their
shoulders as though they would say my mother was a Spaniard,
therefore corrupt; that I was born of a Spanish mother, therefore I
was corrupt, too. I dare say to you what it would be useless for me to
say to others. I have never, in one single instance, gone against my
mother’s teaching. See, I could fold my hands now and pray to
‘Jesus, meek and mild,’ as I did years ago at my mother’s knee.
Could I do that if I were what they say? Would not God, for such
hypocrisy, strike me dead? If my mother had lived, all would have
been well with me; but she was never strong, and the wind that
blows over Granada is not always healthy. I do not know why she
died. I saw her fading day by day. She grew more beautiful, more
lovable; it was the angel nature drawing nearer. People used to look
at me and say: ‘Poor child, she is very young and very tender to
have so great a trouble,’ and then I knew my mother was dying.
Perhaps you never watched how gently those fair English daisies
close their golden eyes, nor how softly a flower dies while the sun
kisses it. Even so my mother died; no one knew when. She was
looking at me with a strange, solemn brightness in her eyes, and she
said: ‘You will come to me, Julietta, mia; you will come to heaven, to
me?’”
“I cried out ‘Yes!’ and fell weeping on her neck; when I raised my
eyes hers were closed, and her face was whiter than a lily leaf. Do
you think if I were what they say, light of love, light of fame, that I
dare remember and love, and long to meet again my dead, dear,
young mother? Rather should I shrink from her and find heaven
where she was not.”
 CHAPTER XL.
LADY PELHAM’S STORY.

“I was sixteen and a half when my mother died. In England I

should have been looked upon as a mere girl; in Spain I was a
woman. Can you imagine my lot alone, poor, so young, so helpless?
I thought my father must have relatives and friends in this far-off
England; but I did not know how to reach them. At last the English
consul at Madrid wrote for me; he said that the late Captain Payton
belonged to the noble old English family of Pelhams, and that if my
story were known I should be adopted by some of them. While
waiting for the reply, I went to live with the only relative I had in the
world—a cousin of my mother—a cross, proud, stiff, elderly lady,
Donna Maria de Borga, who hated every one in the world younger
than herself. I was so wretched, so unutterably wretched, that I
wished myself dead over and over again. You can fancy a flower
shut out from the sunshine and left to die in the cold. You can
imagine a bird deprived of light and liberty. With my mother, life had
been all poetry and happiness; now it was all gloom.
“An answer came from England, saying the only member of my
father’s family living was Sir Alfred Pelham, and he was traveling on
the Continent; that he would make a point of seeing me, and seeing
what could be done for me, before he returned.
“One day the sun was shining down on Granada, and the myrtles
were all in bloom; my aunt, as Donna Maria wished me to call her,
had fallen fast asleep, and I went down to the fountain that stood
under the shade of tall, spreading trees, the silvery spray reached
the leaves and wetted them, then fell with what seemed a laugh at its
own graceful waywardness. I liked to watch the spray, when the sun
shone through it; it was like a diamond shower. The music of falling
water always carries me back to that day. I was looking intently into
the water, thinking the thousand thoughts that fill a young girl’s mind,
when I was startled suddenly by seeing in the water the reflection of
a face close to my own. Had the face been less handsome I might
have sprung away in startled alarm; as it was, I looked, and looked
again, so meeting my fate. It was an English face, laughing,
careless, debonair, with a kind of frank beauty that seemed to me
perfection. The eyes were laughing, large and blue, with a certain
expression that said: ‘I defy you not to like me, try as you will.’ The
hair was of a rich, golden brown; as he stood there in the sunshine
there seemed to be threads of gold running through it. I could not
see what the mouth was like, for the golden mustache drooped over
and hid it. I was then only just seventeen, and I had seen no one in
all my life to be compared to this handsome stranger.
“‘Am I mistaken,’ said a deep, rich voice, ‘or is this my young
kinswoman, Miss Payton?’
“The English tongue was not new to me, for my mother had loved
it well; but his words struck me; they moved the deep waters of my
soul—they called into life a hundred thoughts that had lain dormant.
“‘I am Sir Alfred Pelham,’ he continued, ‘and a letter received
some time since tells me I have a beautiful young kinswoman here in
Granada. Is it true?’
“‘Yes,’ I stammered, ‘quite true. I am Captain Payton’s daughter.
Will you come in and see my aunt, Donna Maria?’
“I was old enough to understand the deep admiration his eyes
expressed for me.
“‘Yes, I will go in,’ he said, ‘but not just yet. Stay out in the
sunshine a little longer.’
“I stayed; it would have been well for me if I had died there by the
side of that rippling fountain before greater harm came to me. Sir
Alfred Pelham was then what perhaps people think him now, one of
the handsomest and most fascinating of men. I believe he could do
anything that he made up his mind to do. I do not think any one
could resist him. He had—perhaps has—a charm of manner, in
which no one ever surpassed him. I stayed with him in the sunshine,
and that one-half hour changed the whole current of my life. I