Miss Deane was bound by any promise to me

was entirely mistaken."

"She told me herself."

The blood rushed to Philip's face as he heard the words.

more.

"What?" he gasped, and could say no

"I came here,” said Cheepyre doggedly, "to ask her to marry me. I asked her to-day and she-she Of course I was surprised; and I asked She said yes; and I

said no.
if there was any reason.

And so she told me

asked what his name was. that of course she could never marry you, but of course she could never marry anybody else, or words to that effect."

"And she said that?" It was to Philip Lamond as if a miracle had been wrought before his eyes; as if the world and life, had felt a sudden change. He had so surely taught himself to believe all that made hope impossible that he could scarcely imagine the truth of the words which he heard. He stood dumb with wonder and with throbbing pulses. After a time he said, "I have been a fool. Freddie, I have done you a great wrong, but I did not mean to. Can you forgive me?" "Oh yes," said Lord Cheepyre, and he gave him his hand. "It seems to me that you did a devilish

fine thing, or tried to do it. I can't say I am very grateful, but-curse you Philip! I do wish you joy with all my heart." Philip clutched his hand, but the little lord pulled it away that he might get at his handkerchief. “A pretty good fool I am making of myself,” he said in a broken voice; "can I do anything for you in London? It's deuced bad taste." Here he made a meritorious attempt to laugh. Philip had nothing to say. He asserted his folly many times. He got hold of Cheepyre's hand again and held it. He began to heap further terms of abuse on himself; but his friend would not listen. "Oh don't bother about me,” he said, "it don't matter; I am young you know; and good-bye and good luck to you old man; I'm going to get some din-dinner."

279

CHAPTER XXV.

"She was false as water."

PHILIP left alone stood as one dazed by sudden catastrophe. The dusk was growing to darkness about him and the yellow lights were starting through the gloom. He stood and watched them, dumbly and breathlessly awaiting the flood of emotions. He could not yet be glad, but with a numb pain expected the first faint glow of a triumphant dawn. After a time thoughts of art and love, of the toil and the glory of life, came and went in the darkness. His many theories hung loose upon him as torn rags on a scarecrow. Regret and hope were loud, but above all amazement. Slowly one thought took absolute possession of him. Then, try as he might, he could not be calm. Fragments of passionate speech broke from his lips. "She loves me," he whispered, "she

loves me. It is I whom she loves-I." It seemed that he could scarcely believe in his identity, that it was of him and not of some dead self that this great thing was true. "She loves me." Once and once only, he thought, in the world had the tree of Love put forth its supreme flower; and that flower was for him. No fancy was too fantastic for his faith in that hour. And he would greatly dare and win this priceless thing. He must win this woman to be his wife, though he should spend his life in drudgery—in painting for daily bread and cheap popularity. There was no doubt about this. He laughed at the importance of his art. What was the best his hand could do beside this divine work? She must be happy at all cost; and the cost was nothing. His own happiness he would have sacrificed to his canvas, but not the happiness of her who loved him. She loved him, and her love was above price. His head was throbbing. His beating heart was as the gallop of a horse in his ears. The feelings, which he had bound down with all the strength of his manhood, the feelings which he had stifled in the depths, rose on him and hurled him from his foothold. Suddenly he seemed to wake out of a trance to find himself hurrying towards the Palazzo Belrotoli with cold hand

clenched and lips muttering like a madman's. He stopped short, frightened by his own frenzy. No good could come of this. Was he mad that decide what to do?

he did not pause to think, to

Was he a man, and should he yield himself like a slave to his own passion? What if he were rushing to disappointment? What more likely than that this boy was mistaken? Lord Cheepyre was not very wise at the best, and now he had been moved to an unusual degree; how easily he might have confused past with present, have misunderstood a girl's few words. Then he, Philip Lamond, who had held himself so strong, waking in horror to find that in delirium he had staked life itself upon a chance, would be drawn away by the ebb and flung helpless to death. There was He had remembered himself in time.

time now. He could yet make him ready for any fate. So as he walked he forced himself to think. He would not be sure of her love. Even if she still cared for him, were it not better for her that he should go? He only thought of her good; he would not think of himself. Were it not better for her? He had seen with his own eyes that she could live without him; that she had grown in strength and beauty though he had gone from her.