Lenore sat in her dainty room, her long golden hair flooding her white shoulders, her fair face reflected in the Venetian mirror with its edging of antique work and trimming of lace. Not even a Venetian mirror could have desired to hold a fairer picture; youth, beauty, and happiness, smiled from its surface. The rich, delicately curved lips smiled to-night, with an ineffable content, and serene satisfaction.

There was a latent gleam of triumph in the violet eyes, eloquent of triumph and victory. She had conquered; the desire of her life was nearly within her grasp; two days—forty-eight hours—more and Leycester Wyndward would be hers. An ancient name, an historic title, an immense estate were to be hers. To do her justice at this moment, she thought neither of the title nor the estate; it was of the man, of the man with his handsome face, and musical voice, and debonnaire manner that she thought. If they had come and told her, there where she sat, that it had been discovered that he was neither noble nor rich, she would not have cared, it would not have mattered. It was the man, it was Leycester himself, for whom she had plotted and schemed, and she would have been content with him alone.

Even now, as she looked at the beautiful reflection in the mirror, it was with no thought of her own beauty, all her thoughts were of him; and the smile that crossed the red lips was called up by no spirit of vanity, but by the thought that in forty-eight hours, the wish and the desire of her life would be gratified.

In silence the maid brushed out the wealth of golden tresses, of which she was almost as proud as the owner herself; she had heard a whisper in the servants' hall, but it was not for her to speak. It was a rumor that something had happened to Lord Leycester, that he had not returned yet, and that one of the wild fits, with which all the household were familiar, had seized him, and that he was off no one knew where.

It was not for her to speak, but she watched her beautiful mistress covertly, and thought how quickly she could dispel the smile of serenity which sat upon the fair face.

Quiet as the wedding was intended to be, there was necessarily some stir; the society papers had got hold of it, and dilated upon it in paragraphs, in which Lenore was spoken of as "our reigning beauty," and Leycester described as the son of a well-known peer, and a man of fashion. Quite an army of upholsterers had been at work at the house in Grosvenor Square, and another army of milliners and dressmakers had been preparing the bride's trousseau. A pile of imperials and portmanteaus stood in the dressing-room, each bearing the initials "I," with the coronet.

One or two of the Beauchamps, the present earl and a brother—together with three young lady cousins, who were to act as bridesmaids—had been invited, and were to arrive the following[275] evening. Certainly there must be some slight fuss, and Lenore, as she thought of Leycester's absence, ascribed it to his dislike to the aforesaid fuss, and his desire to escape from it.

The maid went at last, and Lenore, with a happy sigh, went to sleep. At that time Leycester was pacing the beach at Carlyon, and Jasper and poor Frank were lying dead. Surely if dreams come to warn one of impending trouble, Lady Lenore should have dreamed to-night; but she did not. She slept the night through without a break, and rose fresh and beautiful, with only twenty-four hours between her and happiness.

But when she entered the breakfast-room, and met the pale, anxious face of the countess, and the grave one of the earl, a sudden spasm of fear, scarcely fear, but apprehension, fell upon her.

"What is the matter?" she asked, gliding to the countess, and kissing her.

"Nothing—really nothing, dear," she said, attempting to speak lightly.

"Where is Leycester?" she asked.

"That is it," replied the countess, pouring out the coffee, and keeping her eye fixed on the cup. "The foolish boy hasn't returned yet."

"Not returned?" echoed Lenore, and a faint flush came into her face. "Where did he go?"

"I don't know, my dear Lenore, and I cannot find out. He didn't tell you?"

Lenore shook her head, and fastened a flower in her dress with a hand that quivered faintly.

"No. I did not ask him. I saw him go."

"Was he on foot, or riding?" asked the earl.

"On foot," said Lenore. "He was in his shooting clothes, and I thought he was going for a walk on the hills."

The earl broke his piece of toast with a little irritable jerk.

"It is annoying," he said. "It is extremely inconsiderate of him, extremely. To-day, of all others, he should have remained at home."

"He will be here presently," said Lenore, calmly.

The countess sighed.

"Nothing—of course nothing could have happened to him."

She merely made the suggestion in a suppressed, hushed, anxious voice.

Lenore laughed—actually laughed.

"Happened to him, to Leycester!" she said, with proud contempt. "What could have happened to him? Leycester is not the sort of man to meet with accidents. Pray do not be uneasy, dear; he will come in directly, very tired, and very hungry, and laugh at us."

"I give him credit for better manners," said the earl, curtly.

He was angry and annoyed. As he had said to the countess before Lenore came in, he had hoped and believed that Leycester had given up this sort of boyish nonsense, and intended to act sensibly, as became a man who had settled to marry.

[276]

There was a moment's pause while the earl buttered his toast, still irritably; then Lady Wyndward said almost to herself—

"Perhaps Lilian knows?"

"No," said Lenore, quickly, "she does not, or she would have told me. I saw her last night the last thing, and she did not know he was out. Do not tell her."

The countess glanced at her gratefully.

"She would only be anxious and fret," said Lenore. "While I am not, and shall not be," she added, with a smile. "I am not afraid that Leycester has run away from me."

She looked up as she spoke, and flashed her beauty upon them, as it were, and smiled, and the mother felt reassured. Certainly it did not seem probable that any man would run away from her.

She herself felt no fear, not even when the morning grew to noon and the noon to evening. She went about the house superintending the packing of the multitudinous things, arranging the epergnes, playing the piano even, and more than once the light air from the French opera floated through the room.

Lord Beauchamp and the rest of the visitors were to arrive about seven, just in time to dress for dinner, and the stir that had reigned in the house grew accentuated as the time approached. Lenore went to her room at six to dress; she meant to look her best to-night, as well indeed as she meant to look on the following day; and her maid knew by the attention which her mistress had paid to the wardrobe that every care would be expected from her ministering hands. Just before she went to her room she met the countess on the stairs; they had not seen very much of each other during the day; there was a great deal to do, and the countess, notwithstanding her rank, was a housekeeper in something more than name.

"Lenore," she said, then stopped.

The beauty bent over from her position on a higher step and kissed her.

"I know, dear—he has not come yet. Well, he will be here by dinner-time. Why are you so anxious? I am not."

And she laughed.

It certainly encouraged the countess, and she even called up a smile.

"What a strange girl you are, Lenore," she said. "One would have thought that you, before all of us, would have been uneasy."

Lenore shook her head.

"No, dear; I feel—I feel that he will come. Now see if my prophecy comes true."

And she went up the stairs, casting a serene and confident smile over her shoulder.

"I will wear that last blue dress of Worth's, and the pearls," she said to her maid, and the girl started. The dress had just arrived, and was supposed to be reserved for future London triumphs.

"The last, my lady?"

Lenore nodded.

[277]

"Yes; I want to look my best to-night; and if I were not afraid of being thought too pronounced, I would wear my diamonds."

The girl arranged the beautiful hair in its close curls of gold, and fastened the famous pearls upon the white wrists and round the dainty throat; and Lenore surveyed herself in the Venetian mirror. A smile of satisfaction slowly lit up her face.

"Well?" she said, over her shoulder.

"Beautiful," breathed the girl, who was proud of her mistress's loveliness. "Oh, beautiful, my lady! but isn't it a pity to wear it to-night?"

Lenore shook her head.

"I would wear a better if I had it," she said, softly. "Now go down-stairs, and tell me when Lord Leycester returns."

The girl stared and then smiled. After all then they had been worrying themselves about nothing; her ladyship had received a message from him and knew when to expect him! She went down and crowed over them in the servants' hall, and watched for Lord Leycester.

Seven o'clock chimed from the stables, and the carriage that had been sent to meet the guests returned. Lord Beauchamp was a tall, stately old gentleman who hated traveling as he hated anything else that gave him any trouble or inconvenience, and the rest were tired and dusty, and generally pining for soap and water. The earl and countess met them in the hall, and in the bustle and fuss Leycester was not missed.

"Do not hurry, Lord Beauchamp," said the poor countess. "We will make the dinner half-past eight," and she wished in her heart that she could postpone it altogether; for Leycester had not come.

"What shall we do—what shall we do?" she exclaimed, as the earl stood at her dressing-room door with his coat in his hand.

"Do!" he retorted. "Go on without him. This comes of humoring an only son till he develops into a lunatic. Poor Lenore! I pity her!" and he went out frowning.

"He has not come, my lady!" murmured the maid, entering Lenore's room a few minutes afterwards. "Lord Beauchamp's party have arrived, but Lord Leycester has not come."

Lenore was standing by the open window, and she turned with a sudden smile. The sound of horse's feet had struck upon her ear.

"Yes, he has," she said. "He is here now," and she closed the window and sat down calmly.

Leycester rode into the courtyard on the horse that he had borrowed from the doctor, and, throwing the bridle to a groom, ascended the stone steps and made his way through the hall.

Excepting some of the servants, there was no one about, they had all gone to their dressing-rooms, and he went up the stairs in silence and uninterrupted. With bent head and dragging step, for the long vigil and hours of excitement had told upon him, he stood before Lilian's room. It was worthy of notice that in[278] this awful coming back of his he we............