Jaquelina

And again:

At noon General Valchester arrived. He had a brief, private interview with Dr. Leslie; then they telegraphed for a celebrated Richmond physician.

The brooding shadows of the death-angel's wing hung dark and heavy over Laurel Hill.

In the rainy, dreary sunset Charlie Meredith drove over in his buggy.

"I would have come sooner," he said, "but I have been to town to consult a lawyer for my niece. So when I got home and wife told me Lina had never got back, I thought I'd drive over and inquire after Mr. Valchester, and fetch her home if she'd a mind to go."

Mr. Earle, to whom he was talking, looked at him with a start of surprise.

"I am sorry to say that Mr. Valchester is in a very critical condition," he replied. "After his father came up at noon to-day he immediately telegraphed for a physician from Richmond."

"I am sorry to hear that," said Mr. Meredith. "Perhaps, then, my niece will not be ready to go home yet?"

And again Mr. Earle looked surprised.

"Miss Meredith went home at daylight this morning," he answered.

"Eh—what? I don't think I understand you," said Charlie Meredith.

"Your niece went home at daylight this morning," Mr. Earle repeated.

The farmer's healthy brown skin turned pale. He looked dazed.

"Mr. Earle, you must be mistaken," he said. "Lina has never been home to-day. She walked over here yesterday afternoon, and she has not been at home since."

"She certainly left Laurel Hill early this morning," Mr. Earle said, perplexed. "Walter walked with her to the lawn gates. He wished to drive her over in the phaeton, but she declined, so he told me, and insisted on going home alone. I sincerely trust that no harm has befallen little Lina."

Mr. Meredith looked grave and a good deal troubled.

"Is it not strange she should have started home so soon in the morning? I cannot understand it."

Walter came out just then. He grew pale when they told him that Jaquelina had never come home that day. He remembered what a hopeless despair had looked at him from the dark eyes and the fair young face when they parted.

"And yet I never dreamed of anything wrong," he said to himself, with a pang of pain at his heart. "Oh, why did I let her go alone? I should have known better from the look on her face."

He said aloud, more cheerfully than he felt:

"Perhaps she grew weary and stopped in at some of the neighbors to rest. I will go with you to inquire, Mr. Meredith."

"I shall be glad of your company," said the farmer. "I think it is very likely you have hit on the truth, Walter. She must have grown tired and stopped in at some of the neighbors."

"And you may, perhaps, find her already at home when you reach there," said Mr. Earle, who thought that his son's idea was the correct one.

But Walter was not so sanguine. He got into the buggy and drove away with Mr. Meredith, but he was not surprised when one neighbor after another declared that Jaquelina had not been seen by any one of them that day.

All inquiry and all search failed to unravel the mystery of her disappearance. No one had seen her since she turned away from Walter Earle at the lawn gates that morning, and when he remembered the look upon her face that moment he shuddered and thought of the river.

He told Mr. Meredith of his fears.

The next day the river was dragged, but to no avail. Jaquelina had vanished as utterly as if the solid earth had opened beneath her feet and received her into its bosom.

Many believed that Gerald Huntington had carried her off again, and a party was organized to explore the woods in the hope of discovering the cave which Jaquelina had described to them as the rendezvous of the outlaws.

CHAPTER XXVI.

It was decided that Ronald Valchester should not hear of Jaquelina's strange disappearance. Already he lay at death's door, and the physicians declared that another shock of any kind would utterly destroy his frail hold on life.

As consciousness returned to him they avoided all mention of that once familiar name in the sick-room; yet they knew many a time, by the look in the beautiful, dark-gray eyes, that he was thinking of the girl he had loved so well and lost so sadly.

Sometimes they wondered why he never spoke of her. They did not know how Ronald and Lina had parted—how sorrowfully he had said to her, even as he held the small hands tightly in his own, and looked at her with a soul's despair stamped on his death white face:

"Lina, this is the last time I must hold your hands, or even look into your face while Gerald Huntington lives. You are legally his, and I have never believed in divorce. If the law were to free you, I should still hold you bound to him by a higher power than man's law. So you understand, dear, it is best we should separate wholly, never, perhaps, to look on each other's faces again. I pray God that I may die, and so pass from this life that but a little while ago was so fair and tempting in my eyes, and that is now but an empty desert. For you, my sweet, lost love, may God bless you, and give us both the strength to bear the heavy cross of sorrow!"

And Jaquelina, remembering Doctor Leslie's words that he must not be excited or contradicted in any way, had bowed her head, and answered meekly:

"It must be so if you will it thus, Ronald. God give us both the patience to bear it."

And with those words, and one last, lingering look at the beloved face, Jaquelina had kissed his hands, and gone away, but she had not let him see that look on her face that the others had seen—that hopeless despair and pain that it frightened Walter Earle to remember.

So they kept the story away from Ronald, even while the unspoken language of his eyes said plainer than words:

"I am longing to hear something of my poor lost love. Even to hear her name spoken aloud would be a relief, since it is ever ringing itself in my brain."

But no one spoke of her, no one seemed to remember her existence. It seemed to Ronald that they were cruel to be so forgetful. He had placed a seal upon his own lips, but he would have trembled with pleasure if anyone else had even named her name.

Day by day there began to be some slight change in Ronald, faint at first, but growing more and more noticeable. The doctors began to have hopes of him.

They thought it more than likely he would pull through safely now. Yet they owned that there would long be a weakness in that wounded lung, and they strenuously recommended a sea voyage to him when he should be sufficiently recovered to undertake it.

"A sea voyage—a winter in Italy," said Doctor Sanborn, "would build up your constitution—make a new man of you."

"And lend new wings to your soaring fancy," laughed Doctor Leslie, who had found out that Ronald was a poet. "I should say that beautiful, dreamy Italy, is the true home of the poetic muse."

Ronald fell in with the plan at once, the more eagerly that he felt it would be best to put the whole width of the world between himself and Jaquelina. It seemed to him that if he were farther away that he must cease to be tormented by that passionate yearning for the lost one that haunted him now forever.

But there were weary days of lingering pain and slow convalescence to be passed over before that sea voyage could be undertaken. The red and gold of the October leaves blew in drifts across the lawn and in the wood before he was ever out of his room. Meanwhile his thoughts—in spite of himself—were ever busy with Jaquelina. He pictured her to himself many times daily. He wondered how she spent her time; he wondered if she had gone away to teach as she had meant to do before their evanescent dream of happiness. That fancy pained him.

It retarded his convalescence. It kept him restless and wakeful at night. He learned the full meaning of the poet's plaints:

General Valchester had returned home when his son was declared out of danger, but his wife remained to nurse and tend her darling. She was growing very impatient to take him home to Richmond.

It was a happy day for Violet Earle when the invalid was at last able to come down into the drawing-room and rest on the snowy pillows that she eagerly arranged for him. She had not been admitted to the sick-room much, but for the few days he would remain with them, she determined that she would do her best to win him. Jaquelina was out of the way now, and she had a fair field for her operations.

As she sat near the sunny window with her dainty basket of bright colored silks and embroideries, Ronald's eyes could rest on her without the trouble of turning his head, and he could not help seeing that she was very fair and beautiful. She had spent a long time at her toilet that morning, and the result was a very dainty and charming toilet. A morning dress of pale-blue cashmere, with front facings of shirred satin, made a perfect foil to her fair skin, blue eyes and golden hair. A delicate fichu of cream-colored lace was knotted around her throat and fastened on her breast by a cluster of pale, pink begonias. The delicate hands, flashing in and out through the bright colors of the embroidery, were soft and white, and gleaming with jewels. Mrs. Valchester was charmed with her. She wished very much that her son would take a fancy to her, since he had lost the girl he loved at first.

But Violet's presence was more of a pain than a pleasure to Ronald Valchester. She made him think all the more of Jaquelina. He had seen them so often together.

"I wish you were well enough to go out and walk in the woods," she said to him, lifting her blue eyes a moment to look at him; "you would be delighted with their autumn beauty. I sent you, yesterday, a little basket of leaves, the brightest and prettiest I could find. Did mamma give them to you?"

"Yes, but I think she forgot to tell me you had sent them," he replied. "Thank you for thinking of me so kindly. They were very beautiful. I enjoyed looking at them very much."

Violet pushed back the lace curtains that he might look out at the distant hills with their vivid coloring of scarlet and gold, blent with the dark green of holly and cedar and evergreen.

The autumn sunshine lay over all the scene, brightening it with its mellow light, and adding new beauty to the prospect. Ronald gazed on it long and unweariedly, and he could not help seeing pretty Violet, too, for she sat between him and the window with the golden light shining on her sunny hair.

"How beautiful it all is," Ronald said, with a passing gleam of enthusiasm. "The light is so soft and clear, the air so sweet, and those distant mountains look so blue and beautiful. It seems to me that Italy can scarcely be lovelier than my own native land."

Violet folded her white hands on her work, and looked at him earnestly.

"Oh, Mr. Valchester, I want you to promise me one thing!" she exclaimed.

He looked at her in some surprise.

"What can it be?" he inquired, rather gravely.

"Only this," she said, "that you will write to Walter every week while you are gone, and describe all the beauties of art and nature which you encounter in your travels. I do so love Italy, and long to see it, and if you describe it in your letters, graphically, as I know you will do, it will be almost like seeing it myself, for I will insist on reading all Walter's letters."

"I did not know you were so fond of the beauties of nature, Miss Earle," he replied in some surprise, and the color rose in her fair cheeks.

"I am very fond of nature," she replied, "but you have not promised me yet that you will write to my brother as I said."

"Of course I shall write to Walter," he said, "but I cannot promise that my letters will be very interesting. Perhaps you would prefer to hear me describe my travels when I return."

"Oh, yes, that would be delightful!" Violet cried, all smiles and pleasure. "So then you promise me to come to Laurel Hill when you return, and describe Italy to me?"

"Oh, yes, I will come," he replied, carelessly. "But I dare say you will be married and gone to a home of your own before that time."

"Oh! no indeed!" she cried out quickly. "If you stay ten years you will find me at Laurel Hill when you return."

"It will be quite a wonder if he does, then," said Mrs. Valchester, who had entered and overheard the last remarks. "It is not likely that the young men of Virginia will allow such a pretty girl to remain at Laurel Hill ten years longer!"

Violet laughed and blushed, and protested that she would never marry; but Ronald agreed with his mother that it was quite unlikely she should remain an old maid. She was exceedingly pretty for such a fate.

CHAPTER XXVII.

Ronald Valchester grew very tired of the role of invalid. His mother and Mrs. Earle and Violet all vied in attentions to him. They were always arranging his pillows, bringing him flowers, and "fussing over him," as Walter laughingly termed it. The young man was growing exceedingly impatient. He declared that he was well enough to go back to Richmond, and Doctor Leslie at last agreed with him. So they decided one day to start the next day for home.

In the meantime Ronald had enjoyed a few rides in Mrs. Earle's pretty little phaeton with Walter or Violet as his companion. The cool, bracing air of autumn made him feel stronger and better. Mrs. Valchester thought she would soon have him well when once she had taken him home with her.

"Violet," she said, the afternoon of the day on which they were to leave that night, "Walter is going down to Richmond with us. I wish you would go also. Cannot you go, dear?"

Violet looked up with a deep flush of pleasure crimsoning her cheeks.

"If mamma is willing, I can see no reason to prevent," she said, her heart beating high at the thought, for she had been grieving over the thoughts of the near departure of the man she loved so vainly.

"You must ask your papa, love," replied Mrs. Earle, with placid unconsciousness.

"Papa and Walter are going over to the town," said Violet, unable to conceal her disappointment. "They are on some odious law business, and if I wait for their return it is quite likely I shall not have time to pack my trunk—so you will have to excuse me, Mrs. Valchester."

Ronald looked across at her from over the top of the book he was apparently reading. He saw that she was disappointed, though he had no idea of the reason. He did not dream that Violet loved him. He thought she was simply like other girls—weary of the monotony of country life, and longing for the gaiety of the city.

"If you will let me have a horse, Mrs. Earle," he said, "I will ride over to the town and hasten the truants back."

"You are not strong enough to bear horse-back exercise, otherwise I have no objection," replied Mrs. Earle.

"I am quite strong enough," protested Ronald. "You ladies are keeping me an invalid too long. A mile ride through this pleasant air would brace me up. I believe it would do me good."

"Perhaps it would be better to take the phaeton," suggested Violet, who saw therein a chance to accompany him.

But Ronald insisted that horse-back exercise would please him best, and the three ladies yielded the point and allowed him to have his own way.

It was very unwise of Ronald, perhaps, but his passionate hunger to see Jaquelina again had been mainly instrumental in sending him out that evening. The perfect silence everyone maintained regarding her, instead of cooling the fever of his heart added new fires to it. Although his peculiar views regarding divorce precluded the idea that they should ever be aught to each other again, he could not cease to love her.

"It is quite impossible I should ever cease to love her," he said to himself as he rode along under the interlacing boughs of the trees. "I long to see her again, to hear her voice, to touch her hand. And yet I know that I am unwise. But if they had talked to me about her, if they had even called her name I think I could have borne it better. The strange silence they keep maddens me with suspense. It is just as if my lost little Lina were dead."

He sighed deeply, and the thought came to him that it were better indeed if she were dead—better than this separation. He wondered if Lina was as miserable over it as he found himself.

He persuaded himself that it would not be wrong to go and bid Lina a last farewell, and tell her that he was going away—far away in the hope of forgetting her. He could not leave the neighborhood without one more look in the dark eyes that had won his heart. It seemed to him that one look into the fair young face, one sound of the winning voice would cool the fever and thirst of his heart.

He turned into the road that led to Meredith farm, and, almost before he knew it, found himself dismounted and tying the bridle-rein to the orchard gate. Then he opened the gate and went down the path expecting every moment to come upon Lina under the trees, reading or dreaming as of old. His pale face flushed, his heart beat quick, his whole frame trembled with the pain and pleasure of seeing Jaquelina again.

He walked on full of the thought of the girl he loved so wildly and came upon an unexpected tableau. Mrs. Meredith was under a tree with a basket, busily filling it with great red-cheeked winter apples. Little Dollie, frisking beside her, uttered a cry, and she looked around.

"Oh! Mr. Valchester!" she exclaimed, surprised and embarrassed at his sudden appearance.

"Good-evening, Mrs. Meredith," he replied, in equal surprise and confusion.

"I have come to bid Lina good-bye—I am going home to-night. Can you tell me where to find her?"

Mrs. Meredith straightened up and looked at him in surprise. She did not know how carefully they had kept the truth from him.

"My dear sir, I wish I could tell you," she said, full of a certain remorseful pity over poor Jaquelina's fate. "We hain't never heard a word since she went away!"

"Went away—where?" asked Ronald Valchester, blankly; then he added at her look of surprise: "I thought she was at home all the time."

"Oh! dear me," cried Mrs. Meredith; "why, she disappeared all of a sudden, sir, the very day that she left Laurel Hill after visiting you there. Mr. Walter was the last person that ever saw her. We have never seen nor heard of her since, and Mr. Meredith's nigh crazy over it. Did Mr. Walter never tell you, sir?"

But Ronald Valchester did not stay to answer her. He turned away like one in a dream and walked back to the gate, mounted his horse, and rode away as though on an errand of life or death.

CHAPTER XXVIII.

Three years; again the autumn leaves lay on the grass; again the roses shed their leaves and left the thorns; again the golden sunlight lay over the earth as it did that autumn three years gone when the tragedy of sorrow fell between Ronald Valchester and the dawning happiness of his life.

In one of the most palatial hotels of New York a lady sat in her luxurious parlor a lovely morning in that sunny autumn. She was young and beautiful—so beautiful that the eye never wearied of gazing on the light of the large, dark eyes, the dainty contour of the cheek and throat, and the delicate, lovely coloring of the scarlet lips curved like Cupid's bow. That rich tinting of the lips was all the color in her face. The cheek was pale and clear, the brow was creamy-fair, and so transparent you could see the blue veins outlined clearly in the temples. The abundant chestnut hair, with a glint of gold in its brownness was drawn back in waving masses from the thoughtful brow and arranged in rich confusion of braids and ringlets fastened with a comb of gold and pearl. She wore a morning gown of royal purple velvet trimmed with snowy swansdown, and lingered near the fire as if the chill in the autumn air made itself felt even amid the luxurious comfort of her surroundings.

The door opened and an old gentleman entered with an arm-full of papers. The lady looked up with a gentle smile.

"Ah! professor," she cried, "you have not turned newsboy, I hope?"

The handsome old gentleman, with his gray hair and slightly foreign face, laughed genially as he laid his burden down on the small reading table and wheeled it to her side.

"Ah, my dear, only read these!" he exclaimed, enthusiastically. "Your first appearance was a perfect success. All New York is at your feet."

A slight, sad smile came over the beautiful face with its subtle touch of melancholy.

"So they praise me," she said, carelessly. "Tell me what they say, professor."

"Parblieu! I could not begin to tell you," said the old gentleman. "You must read the papers."

She glanced at the formidable heap with an expression of dismay.

"I really have not the time," she said. "I have to study my part for to-night. I will just look at one, however. I suppose one will be a fair epitome of all the rest."

"Yes, about that," he replied. "They are all unanimous in praising you. They declare that Madam Dolores is the queen of the lyric stage."

"They are very kind," replied Madam Dolores, carelessly, with the languid air of one who is accustomed to praise, and almost indifferent to it.

She took up at random a morning paper, smelling freshly of printer's ink, and ran her eyes over its columns. Several columns were devoted to a description of the brilliant first appearance and splendid success of the lovely prima donna who had just come to New York from Europe with all the prestige of a brilliant foreign reputation fresh upon her.

The professor sat down and dived eagerly into the papers, while Madam Dolores rapidly gleaned the contents of the one she held. Presently she looked around at her companion with an eager light in her dark eyes and a sudden flush on her dark cheeks.

"Professor," she said, pointing one taper finger to a paragraph, "here is a book I should like to read. Will you send out and get it for me?"

The professor looked at the words under her finger.

"Poems by R. V.," he read; "certainly, my dear," rising, then at the door he turned and said, "who is R. V., my child?"

"Some American poet," said Madam Dolores, carelessly, with her head turned away.

The door closed between them and a long, long sigh quivered over the lips of the beautiful prima donna with the sorrowful name, Dolores. She hid her face in her beautiful hands.

"His poems," she murmured, almost inaudibly. "It will be almost like meeting him face to face. Oh, Ronald, Ronald!"

You would not have thought, to see that slender figure bowed so sorrowfully there, that all New York was raving over her beauty and her genius. But it was true. Madam Dolores, as she called herself, had been induced to come to America by a New York manager who wished to bring out an opera by an author who desired to remain unknown for the present.

It was rumored that the gentleman had already achieved fame as a poet, but beyond that fact, which the manager did not deny, no one even remotely guessed the name. Neither money nor pains had been spared to bring the opera out successfully. Madam Dolores, who had just completed a successful starring tour abroad, was engaged at immense expense to bring it out. The result was—success! Laurels for the brow of the composer, and new laurels for the brow of the singer.

Yet no smile of triumph touched the fair face of the lovely queen of song as she sat there waiting. It was full of a wistful pathos that sometime deepened into pain. It was full of poetry and passion and sorrow. There was no light of gladness in the large and bright dark eyes, yet they were both brave and tender. It was only when she was singing that any brightness came into the grave, sad face.

Then she lost herself like a true artiste in the part she sang.

She looked up quickly as the professor entered with the book for which she had sent him, her white hand trembled as she took the beautiful, richly-bound volume.

"Thank you," she said, and her voice was so husky and low that the professor, her teacher and adviser, looked at her anxiously.

"Dolores, your voice sounds hoarse," he said. "I fear you will not be in voice for to-night."

"Never fear," she replied in a clearer tone, and then she turned away from him, and while he pored over the papers, glorying in the praises they showered on his gifted ward, she sat silent in the great velvet arm-chair with the beautiful volume shut tightly between her folded hands. She was not quite strong enough to open it yet. It seemed like a message from the dead. Ronald Valchester was as one dead to her forever, yet the best part of her lost lover, the heart's deep tenderness, the imperishable, proud, poetic soul seemed throbbing beneath the warm clasp of her hand.

It was several minutes before she could open the book. She, who had always loved music and poetry so dearly, sat trembling with her lover's poems in her hands and could not read them. She was dizzy—there was a mist before her eyes. The luxurious room seemed to fade before her, giving place to the green hills and dales of her old Virginia home.

She felt the cold winds whispering among the trees and lifting the careless curls from her brow, she smelt the "violets hidden in the green," she recalled the old, simple, lonely life which had been glorified for a little while by Ronald Valchester's love. Then with a start she came back to the present. Of that life and of that lover there remained to her only a memory now.

"And this," she said, opening the beautiful book and trembling all over as she read the dainty verses into which her lost lover had poured all the poetry and passion of a gifted mind and tender heart.

She read on and on. They touched her strangely, these gems of thought and feeling.

Some were very sad and tender—some seemed to have poured straight from Ronald's heart into her own. It seemed as if he had written them for her—for her only.

She became quite lost in them, and oblivious to everything else; she did not hear the professor steal out and close the door gently behind him. The outer world had no place in her thoughts for awhile.

She started when a hand was laid upon her head, and looked up with a cry, but it was only the old professor's wife, who was like a mother to her.

"Oh, forgive me, darling," said the sweet old lady; "I did not mean to startle you. But only look at these flowers!"

She put a bouquet into the prima donna's hand—an exquisite collection of rare and odorous flowers. There was not a scentless leaf or flower in the bouquet. The delicate, living fragrance floated deliciously through the room.

"He sent them—the author of the opera himself," cried Mrs. Professor, delightedly. "He is coming with the manager to call on you this afternoon."

"Very well," said Madam Dolores, resignedly. "Chere maman, please tell my maid to put the flowers in water, and call me when it's time to dress."

"Why, my dear, it's time now, this minute. You have been lost in that book for hours! Twice I looked into the room, and went out again because you were so absorbed I hadn't the heart to disturb you. But now, really, there isn't another minute to lose. I've told Fanchette to lay out a handsome dress for you—and, dear, I think it would be a graceful compliment to the author to wear a few of these flowers in your hair."

"Very well," said Madam Dolores again, as she rose and passed into the dressing-room, still clasping the precious book in her hand.

"What will madame wear?" inquired the trim French maid.

"Anything; it does not matter," was the careless reply, as Madam Dolores threw herself into a chair to have her hair rearranged, and opened her book again.

She could not bear to lose a minute from its pages.

Fanchette had the true French taste for style and elegance. She selected a robe of black lace and black satin, embroidered with jet. Then she took some fragrant white rose-buds from the author's bouquet and fastened them at the front of the square corsage, and tied a black velvet ribbon around the slender column of the white throat. She wore no ornament except the pearl cross that swung from the velvet ribbon, and a diamond on her finger. No costume could have enhanced the star-like beauty of the queen of song more superbly. The lustrous satin set off the creamy fairness of cheek and throat and brow exquisitely, and made the soft darkness of eyes and hair more lovely by the contrast.

But Madam Dolores was so impatient she forgot to glance into the long, swinging mirror when Fanchette said she was "finished."

She took up R. V.'s poems and went back to the parlor, hoping to get a minute more for reading before her visitors came.

So when Professor Larue ushered Manager Verne and the author into the room, Madam Dolores had utterly forgotten their existence.

She was half-buried in a great, velvet chair, her cheek in the hollow of one small hand, the dark, fringed lashes almost sweeping her cheek as she pored over the blue-and-gold volume that lay open on her knee.

They were fairly in the house before she heard them; then she rose, with a deep, beautiful blush that faded instantly into marble pallor; for, glancing instinctively past the manager, she saw a tall, handsome man with blue-gray eyes like twilight skies, and dark hair thrown carelessly back from a high, white brow. She heard the manager say, courteously:

"Madam Dolores, allow me to present to you Mr. Valchester, the composer of the opera over which all New York has gone wild with delight."

Madam Dolores murmured some indistinct words in reply, and made a low bow to the author, but she did not offer him her hand. It hung at her side, still mechanically grasping the book of poems.

Mr. Valchester complimented and congratulated her on her successful appearance last night, and then thanked her in eloquent, well-chosen terms for the part she had taken in making his venture such a signal success.

Both were grave and courteous, and calm. No one who witnessed the meeting would have suspected that they had parted only three years ago, broken-hearted and longing for death.

In that moment of quiet recognition each believed that the other had outlived the passion which a little while ago had seemed the all in all of life.

Then the manager excused himself and went out with the professor.

The author and the singer were left alone in the luxurious parlor to entertain each other. They sat silently a moment; then Mr. Valchester said, calmly:

"You were reading, Madam Dolores?"

She looked down at the book in her hand, and the color rushed into her cheeks as she answered:

"Yes."

CHAPTER XXIX.

"Will you permit me to see what author engages your attention?" said Ronald Valchester; and the singer quietly laid the book in his hand.

He opened it, and she smiled very faintly as she saw the sensitive color mount to his cheeks.

"I presume they are your own poems, Mr. Valchester?" she said; and he shivered at the sweetness of her low voice.

The rushing tide of memory poured over his soul overwhelmingly. He lifted his eyes and looked fully at the beautiful woman.

"Yes, they are mine," he answered, trembling as the beautiful dark eyes met his own.

As they held his glance a moment he saw how grave and sad they were, and the white brow suggested lines he had somewhere read:

"Ah, Mr. Valchester," she said, lightly, it seemed to him, "I told you long ago that you were a poet, and you denied it."

He bent toward her eagerly, his blue-gray eyes growing bright and dark with excitement.

"Then it really is you, Lina?" he cried. "I thought—I believed it was so, but I was afraid to speak."

His deep voice quivered with emotion.

Of the two she seemed much the calmer.

Only the marble pallor of her cheek showed her intense repressed agitation.

"Yes, it is Lina," she said, with apparent calmness. "Are you surprised, Mr. Valchester?"

"Lina, we have mourned you as dead," he said, unsteadily.

"There were few to mourn me," she replied, and there was a note of bitterness in the musical voice.

There was a moment's embarrassed silence. Valchester twirled the leaves of the book in his hand. Jaquelina looked at the floor.

"Tell me something of the Earles—and my uncle," she said. "It is so long—three years—since I have heard."

"The Earles are in New York—they came expressly to hear you sing last night," he replied.

"They did not know——" she said, then paused, abruptly.

"That Madam Dolores was little Lina?" he said; "no, but in the first moment when you came upon the stage we were struck by the resemblance. Violet was positively agitated, yet she refused to entertain the idea that it could really be you. You see she had always felt convinced that you were dead, or that"—he paused, and she could see the shudder that shook the strong, handsome form—"you had met a more terrible fate."

"And you—did you believe in my identity?" she asked, calmly, and a little curiously.

"Yes," he answered, unfalteringly. "I knew there was no other face or voice on earth like yours."

"You must have been surprised?" she said.

"I was," he answered. "Only think how strange it is, Lina. We who parted under such sad and terrible circumstances three years ago, to meet again in this way. To think that you of all others should be the one to bring out the opera on which I have labored so long."

"I did not know that you were the author—you must believe that, Mr. Valchester! I should not have undertaken it had I only known!" she exclaimed, hurriedly and earnestly.

He looked at her, the heavy sadness on his face deepening as he saw the lines of pain drawn around the delicate, scarlet lips.

"Lina, were you so proud?" he asked.

"I did not know it was pride," she said, simply. "I was only thinking that—that it were so much better if we had never met again."

She did not know what a pathetic heart-cry there was in the words, but Ronald understood. He rose from his seat and before she could prevent him knelt humbly at her feet.

"Lina, you are quite right," he said, "I tried to keep myself from coming, but I could not. Can you forgive me for inflicting this pain upon you?"

She did not answer, and he took the white hand that hung listless by her side and pressed it to his lips.

"I could not keep myself from coming," he repeated; "I could not still the fever and thirst of my heart. Last night I did not sleep one hour. The knowledge that you were alive and so near me almost maddened me with mingled joy and pain. Ah! Lina, my lost love, you must forgive me for coming this once. I meant to be brave and calm. I thought it might not pain you as it did me. I thought you might have learned not to care."

The hot, passionate tears he could not repress, fell on her white hand, but she did not speak one word. There was nothing she could say. She had not "learned not to care."

She knew that her heart was beating with a fierce, wild joy because she had met him again, but she knew and faced the knowledge with brave, uncomplaining silence, that when he passed out of her life again the unhealed wound in her heart would only bleed anew.

"I thought you might have forgotten," he went on, out of his bitter anguish, "but I see now that you still remember."

"I remember—all," she said, through white lips. "It was such a happy summer—it would not be easy to forget."

"And it pains you to remember it," he said, reading her heart by the light of his own.

She did not answer, but there came into her mind those sad words of Tennyson:

She drew her hand from his clasp, and rose, pallid, beautiful, mournful, her rich and somber draperies rustling as she moved away from him.

"Mr. Valchester, do not be angry, but it would be better for you if you would go," she said, bravely.

"Better—for me?" he said, rising, and looking at her with haggard, weary eyes.

"For us both, then," she answered with patient truthfulness, though the color rose for a moment to her cheek.

"Not to see you again?" he said, questioningly.

"It would be better so," she answered, "unless you have changed your convictions," and he could not help seeing the trembling hope that came into her eyes. "Oh! Ronald, have you never changed in all these years? Do you still hold me bound to that terrible man by a law man cannot repeal?"

Her calmness had broken down. The anguish of that wild and sudden appeal thrilled through his heart. He had no words to answer her.

He saw the dark eyes gazing at him through a mist of tears, the white roses trembled on her breast with the quick beating of her heart. He could not answer the question.

With a stifled moan he turned from the sight of her sorrowful beauty, and rushed from the room, while the beautiful singer fell like a broken lily to the floor and prayed to die.

CHAPTER XXX.

Ronald Valchester thought after he had left the presence of his lost love that day that he would not attend the opera again at night.

But he had promised his mother, who had just arrived in New York that morning, to accompany her, and he had also engaged the same box with Walter and Violet Earle, so it was almost impossible for him to remain away.

When the vast theater rang with the wild plaudits that greeted the queen of song, he was in his place by his mother's side, and his eyes saw nothing clearly but the one face that had filled his heart for years—his ears heard nothing but the silvery voice that carolled its songs to the world now, but which long ago—it seemed years and years, measured by his pain—had sung to him alone beneath the blossoming apple boughs, while her heart had thrilled within him at the sweetness of the strain.

How like and how unlike was the brilliant prima donna of to-night, to the pretty, simple girl of three years ago. The love-light that had beamed in those dark eyes then was so different from their quiet sadness now. As she stood there in her costly robes and gleaming jewels, while fragrant flowers rained at her feet, and the rapturous applause thundered over her head, her beauty was peerless.

Yet no smile curved the rich, red lips as she bent her graceful head, though the lashes swept low on the cheek that for a moment wore a crimson flush like the sunset glow.

There was no gladness on the beautiful face, and yet it was not cold or indifferent.

It was only touched on the fair, low brow, in "the dark—dark eyes," and on the arched, crimson lips with "the sadness of thought."

Walter Earle gazed on the singer, too, with his heart in his eyes. He believed that Madame Dolores was Jaquelina Meredith. The conviction grew upon him.

And Violet, sitting by her brother's side, a fair and graceful figure in blue velvet and pearls, on which many eyes gazed admiringly, watched that slender, stately figure, and listened to the musical voice with untold feelings of horror and despair.

When the curtain was rung down on the first act, stately Mrs. Valchester leaned over to murmur to Violet:

"My love," she said, "the prima donna reminds me of some one I have seen before; but I cannot exactly recollect where."

"Really?" said Violet, with an air of languid interest, but she fluttered her fan nervously and did not try to enlighten the lady.

But Walter Earle had heard the whisper, too. He spoke impulsively:

"Mrs. Valchester, I will tell you of whom she reminds you. She is like—Miss Meredith."

"Oh, yes—yes," Mrs. Valchester assented, quickly, "but it cannot be that—that——" she stopped and looked at Walter, startled out of her usual quiet self-possession.

Walter answered, readily:

"The resemblance struck us all, Mrs. Valchester. I, for one, believe that it is little Lina herself. She had a wonderful voice."

"I thought—thought every one believed that she was dead, or that Gerald Huntington had carried her off again," stammered the lady.

"Every one must have been mistaken," said Walter. "I think there can scarcely be a doubt that Madame Dolores is only the stage name of Jaquelina Meredith."

"Ronald, what do you think?" the lady asked, looking up half timidly into the face of her son.

He had stood by her chair, pale and silent as a statue, hearing every word but taking no part in the conversation. He looked down at her now and answered in a low, quiet voice:

"It is Lina herself."

"Are you sure?" cried Walter.

"I am quite sure," Ronald answered.

Then he saw that they were all looking at him inquiringly, and nerved himself to explain.

"I called on Dolores to-day," he said, "and she frankly admitted her identity."

He did not notice the white anguish that came over Violet's face. He was startled by the gladness that shone in her brother's eyes. It was a revelation to him. But the next moment he heard the sound of a fall. They all turned and saw that Violet had slipped out of her chair and lay on the floor with closed eyelids and a deathly face.

"Violet has fainted," cried Mrs. Valchester.

She had fainted, and when she regained consciousness, it was only to bury her face on Walter's breast, and whisper sadly:

"Take me away."

He carried her home, and when they were gone, Mrs. Valchester looked at her son.

"Ronald, do you know what Violet's fainting meant? she asked, gravely.

"It was too warm, I think," said the unconscious poet.

"Oh, how blind you are, Ronald!" exclaimed his mother.

CHAPTER XXXI.

The next day while Madam Dolores sat alone in her beautiful parlor, a card was brought to her. She read upon it the name of Walter Earle.

"I am so glad to meet you once more," he said, as she rose to receive him. "Valchester told me he had called upon you yesterday and I could not resist coming to-day."

The sensitive color Walter remembered so well, rose into Jaquelina's clear cheek.

"I am very glad to meet you, Mr. Earle," she replied, and gave him her hand in a perfectly frank, unembarrassed way. Walter pressed it a moment with a quickened heart-beat, and then they sat down. He congratulated her on her brilliant career.

"You must tell me how it all came about," he said. "We all believed you dead. It seemed as if the earth must have opened and swallowed you that morning, when I left you at the park gates."

"I wish it had!" she cried, involuntarily, and a look of pain came over the eager, handsome face of the listener.

"Were you so unhappy, Lina?" he asked, sadly.

The white hands clasped each other tightly, and tears came into the sad, dark eyes, as she lifted them to Walter's face.

"I was wretched," she replied. "It seemed to me that my heart was broken."

"But you were not so desperate as I feared," he said. "For when you disappeared so strangely, and we could hear nothing of your fate, I was always afraid that you had drowned yourself."

"I was not quite so reckless, nor so romantic," said Jaquelina, with a slight air of surprise; "I was very anxious to get away from myself, but as that was impossible, I did the next best thing that occurred to me. I simply ran away from the scenes and associations which it was beyond my strength to endure any longer."

"You must have taken infinite pains to hide every trace of your flight," he said. "No one saw or heard anything of you after I parted from you."

"That is not so strange when you remember how early it was, and what a wet and chilly morning," replied Jaquelina, quietly. "I am almost sure I did not meet a single person on the road, but I went straight home. My uncle and aunt were very early risers, you know. They were both out of the house—uncle in the field, and his wife at the milking, I supposed. I went up-stairs to my room, donned a traveling suit, and, taking a small bag in my hand, left the house unobserved. I walked to the station and took an early train for Staunton."

"You had friends there?" said Walter, deeply interested in her quiet story.

"Only Professor Larue—my old music-teacher—and his wife," she replied. "I went to them quite sure of a welcome. They had always predicted great things of me," she added, with the deep color rushing to her cheeks.

"You have been with them always then?" he asked.

"Always," she replied. "They have supplied the place of the parents I never knew. I owe them everything."

"God bless them," said Walter, fervently. "I shall always love them because they were kind to you in your sorrow, Lina."

He could not help calling her Lina. He did not like the sound of her stage name, and "Miss Meredith" seemed so cold and formal in this moment when they had been parted so long. She did not seem to care. She looked at him now, and answered quietly:

"Yes, they were very kind—yet they never knew how much I needed love and kindness. They had only themselves to care for. The professor had always been wild over my voice. I was reckless, desperate. I allowed him to have his own way with me. He took me to Europe, procured musical instructors for me and in time I made my debut in opera."

"And from thenceforward it has been veni, vidi, vici," smiled Walter.

"Yes," she replied, with the calmness of indifference "I have been what the world calls very fortunate. I have won fame and gold—I have been loved and sought—I have had all the best the world has to give except"—here her low voice sank still lower—"except happiness."

"Poor child!" he said, involuntarily.

"Except happiness," she repeated, looking at him with her large, soft, mournful eyes. "That was impossible, you know."

An answering sadness came into Walter's blue eyes.

"Is happiness always to be an impossibility to you, Lina?" he asked.

"Always," she answered, with patient resignation.

"Lina, have you ever seen Gerald Huntington since that night?" he broke out.

"Never!" she replied, with a shudder, and her pale face grew paler still.

"And you have never guessed why he repudiated you in the very moment he made you his bride?"

"Never," she answered again. "There was some secret connected with it; something he found out when he saw the picture of my mother. I cannot tell what it was—I have no idea."

"I saw Gerald Huntington at the opera last night," he said, startlingly.

Jaquelina sprang to her feet, and looked at him in a very panic of terror.

"You saw him," she said, her breath coming and going in fluttering gasps. "Oh, Mr. Earle!" she cried out in wild hope and anxiety; "did Uncle Charlie ever try to get me freed from him, if indeed I was ever bound? for it seemed to me a mere farce—nothing more."

"He did not try, Lina—you were gone, and it seemed as if you were dead," Walter said, hesitatingly.

"He did not try—and Gerald Huntington is here? Oh, Mr. Earle! do you think he has recognized me? Why is he here? What does he mean to do? Oh, if I had never returned here!" Jaquelina cried, rapidly and excitedly.

Before Walter could reply the door was pushed open, and Violet Earle came quickly into the room.

"Walter—you here!" she cried.

CHAPTER XXXII.

Walter Earle looked at his sister in surprise. He had left her rather unwell and complaining of a headache. Even now her eyes were dull and heavy, and her cheeks were flushed a feverish crimson.

"Violet, I would have waited for you if I had known you would come," he said.

"I preferred to come alone," she replied, a little shortly.

Then she went to Jaquelina and held out her hands.

"How do you do, Lina?" she said. "You must allow me to congratulate you on your brilliant success."

The words were calm and conventional; there was no heart in them. Jaquelina felt it vaguely; but she laid her hands in Violet's, kindly, and would have kissed her, only Miss Earle did not offer her lips.

Then Violet looked around at her brother with a charming smile.

"I came alone that I might have a quiet chat with our old friend," she said, "and I dare say you have finished your call; so you may just take yourself off, Walter."

Walter looked uneasy, but her careless gaiety disarmed his vague dread. He went up to Jaquelina and held out his hand.

"I must give way to Violet this time," he said, "but I will call again to-morrow and continue our interrupted conversation, if you will permit me."

Jaquelina turned courteously to her guest, who had thrown herself wearily into a cushioned chair.

"I hope your mamma is well, Miss Earle," she said, gently, thinking of the faded little lady who had always been so kind.

Violet looked surprised and pained.

"Did not Walter tell you?" she cried. "Oh, Lina, mamma is dead!"

"Dead!" cried Jaquelina, and the quick tears sprang into her eyes. "I am sorry. No one had told me of it. How long is it, Violet?"

"Almost three years now," answered Violet, sadly: "She died the winter you went away. I—I do not like to recall it. I was away at the time, visiting the Valchesters in Richmond. It was very, very sudden. She had disease of the heart."

"I am so sorry," Jaquelina repeated, sorrowfully. "I loved her dearly. She was always kind to me."

"Yes, mamma loved you dearly," said Violet, gravely; "yet you disappointed her dearest hope, Lina."

"Her dearest hope!" cried Jaquelina. "I do not understand you, Violet."

"She wished above everything, for you to have become Walter's wife," exclaimed Violet.

The beautiful singer colored deeply, but she did not reply.

"We all wished it," continued Violet. "It would have pleased me very much. I cannot tell you what a disappointment it was to us all when you chose Valchester—a disappointment and a surprise as well. The match seemed so unsuitable."

Jaquelina lifted her dark eyes and regarded her gravely.

"Why unsuitable?" she asked.

"Oh, I could hardly explain it," answered Violet, vaguely, "but it struck us all that way. Ronald Valchester was so very peculiar. You must have thought so yourself after you learned his strange views of marriage and divorce. Did you not, dear?"

Jaquelina sat silent, her hands tightly clasped in her lap.

"Ronald is so very, very proud," went on Violet, after a moment. "He was too proud to marry a woman who had been married to Gerald Huntington; so he invented that excuse to break with you."

"Miss Earle, I believe your views do injustice to Mr. Valchester," Jaquelina answered, with grave, sad dignity. "I am willing to admit that his views are peculiar, but I am quite, quite sure that he only acted in accordance with his honest convictions of duty."

An irrepressible sneer of scorn rose to Violet's lips.

"You must remember I have known Ronald Valchester longer than you have," she said.

"You have known him longer, but I cannot think you understand him any better than I do," Jaquelina answered with gentle sadness.

Violet bit her lip at the quiet rejoinder, but still she persevered.

"Let me give you another instance of his peculiarity," she said. "Are you aware that he entertains a most unwarrantable and ridiculous prejudice against a public life for a woman—such a life as you lead, for instance? Will you discredit this assertion also, Lina?"

"No, for I have long been aware of the fact," she replied with perfect calmness.

"Ah, then, he was frank enough to tell you so yesterday," cried Violet, with unmistakable triumph and delight.

"Oh, no! I knew his opinion years and years ago," the singer replied, simply.

"And you actually defied his opinion—you were careless of what he would wish!" exclaimed Violet Earle, surprised and incredulous.

There was a moment's silence. The white hands that were clasped together in her lap were lifted to hide her face; then she dropped them again, and answered, with quivering lips:

"No, Miss Earle, do not say that. I was never either careless or defiant of Ronald Valchester's opinion. I loved him too well always—always—to do him that despite. But the old life was unendurable. It was madness to remember all I had lost. I threw myself feverishly into a public career because it promised—forgetfulness."

"And have you found it?" Violet asked her, quickly.

"No."

The simple word dropped mournfully from the quivering lips.

Violet looked searchingly at the sad young face that looked so marble-white with the dark fringes of the long, curling lashes resting against the cheeks. A mental vision of that face three years ago came over her. She remembered it sun-tanned, rose-flushed, happy. She remembered the faded print dress, the shabby boots, the worn poetry volume. In the place of that simple girl here was a beautiful, sad-eyed woman, clothed with purple and fine linen—a woman who but a little while ago had told Walter Earle that life had given her fame, wealth, admiration—everything except happiness.

Violet studied the beautiful face curiously a moment, then inquired, abruptly:

"Lina, did you know when you came here that Ronald Valchester was the author of the opera you have brought out with such signal success?"

"No, I did not know it until yesterday," she replied.

"Not until Ronald called upon you?" inquired Violet.

"Not until then," was the answer.

Then Violet said, with flushing cheeks and restless eyes:

"Tell me, Lina, if you had known it would you have come?"

"No, I would not have come," Jaquelina replied, firmly.

"But since you have come," said Violet, with a look of relief, "what do you intend to do about it?"

The singer looked up with a surprised face. Violet looked down uneasily before that wondering gaze.

"Miss Earle, what is there that I can do?" she inquired, in a clear, distinct voice.

"You could go away," Violet replied.

"I intend to do so the very day that my engagement is ended," Jaquelina answered. "It would be impossible to do so before. I am under the heaviest bonds to the manager to fulfill my contract. To evade it I should have to forfeit the greater part of my fortune."

"You would be willing to do that to insure Mr. Valchester's happiness—would you not?" asked Violet, quickly.

"I would do more than that to secure Ronald's happiness," Jaquelina answered, "I would give my life."

"Do you love him so well, then?" Violet asked, with actual pain upon her face.

"Yes," was the quiet reply. "I love him well enough to make any sacrifice for him if it could but secure his happiness. Can you tell me how to do so, Miss Earle?"

"Yes," said Violet. "Obtain a divorce from Gerald Huntington and marry Walter."

"Marry Walter?" Jaquelina echoed faintly. "What happiness could that give to Ronald?"

"It would leave him free to marry elsewhere. Now he has a foolish, Quixotic notion that honor binds him to remain single for your sake."

"And he would be glad to be free from that shadowy tie?" asked the prima donna, with white, pain-drawn lips.

"Yes," Violet answered, recklessly.

"Whom would he marry?" asked Jaquelina.

There was a moment's silence. The dark eyes and the blue ones looked straight into each other. In the first moments of that interview Jaquelina had read the secret of the other. She was not surprised when Violet answered desperately:

"I would try to win him for myself, then."

"You love him?" said Jaquelina, in a tone of the gentlest pity.

Violet lay back in the great, velvet arm-chair, her face as pale as death, her white hand pressed to her side to still its heavy beatings. She answered, gaspingly:

"Yes, I love him—I have always loved him—before you ever saw him. If I do not win him I shall die!"

Then the white lids closed and she lay unconscious before the eyes of her dreaded rival. Jaquelina bent over her and chafed the nerveless hands in her own with tenderest pity.

"Poor Violet," she murmured, "I never dreamed of this, yet I have been her unconscious rival for years. Must I give him up to her? Alas! he is not mine to give."

It was several minutes before Violet revived. She looked up into the face of her rival and whispered fearfully.

"It is my heart, Lina. I cannot bear any great excitement. I have inherited my mother's disease."

The look of grief and pity that came over Jaquelina's sensitive features disarmed all Violet's passionate jealousy and resentment for a moment. A blush of shame colored her pale cheeks, and she cried out with a sudden, remorseful impulse:

"Oh! Lina, do not look at me so kindly—you would not if you knew!"

Touched by an impulse of pity, Jaquelina bent and kissed the white brow with its soft waves of golden hair.

"I know what you mean, dear," she said. "You have been angry with me because Ronald loved me. You could not help it, dear. I am sorry, but I am not angry. You cannot be very envious of me. His love has not brought me much happiness."

It was an anguished plaint from the young heart that had suffered for years in brave silence. Violet looked at her in wonder.

"Oh, Lina," she cried, "how have you borne your sorrow all these years?"

"Violet, I could not tell you," she answered. "Sometimes I wonder at myself when I look back through the long years and remember how hard it was to bear. I think it was only my art that kept my heart from breaking."

"Ah! I have had nothing to divert my mind," cried Violet. "I have spent my whole time thinking of Ronald Valchester—yes, and trying to win him! You need not look so pained, Lina. I loved him before you ever saw him, and it always seemed to me that I had the prior right to him."

She paused, then as Jaquelina made no reply she went on slowly:

"After you were lost to him so strangely, I set my whole heart on winning him. I think—nay, I am almost sure that I must have succeeded in time if only—ah, if only you had not come back, Lina!"

Lina clasped her white hands tightly as she looked at the speaker.

"What difference could that make?" she asked. "You know it is impossible I should win him, Violet. By his own will we are separated forever!"

"Yes, I know that," said Violet, "but, you see, Lina, you have turned his thoughts into the past."

The words were spoken with almost a sob. As the singer made no reply she continued fretfully, and almost reproachfully:

"You have ruined everything by coming back Lina. You have spoiled Ronald's peace, and made Walter's heart ache. And you have destroyed my only hope of happiness. I know I shall surely die!"