XXVI.

November was now drawing to a close, and St. Cecilia's Day dawned in a

misty sunrise, half cloud, half light, like smoke and flame

intermingled. Aubrey Leigh, on waking that morning, had almost decided

to leave Rome before the end of the month. He had learned all that was

necessary for him to know;--he had not come to study the antiquities,

or the dark memories of dead empires, for he would have needed to live

at least ten years in the city to gain even a surface knowledge of all

the Romes, built one upon another, in the Rome of to-day. His main

object had been to discover whether the Holy See existed as a grand and

pure institution for the uplifting and the saving of the souls of men;

or whether it had degenerated into an unscrupulous scheme for drawing

the money out of their pockets. He had searched this problem and solved

it. He had perceived the trickery, the dissimulation and hypocrisy of

Roman priestcraft. He had seen the Pope officiate at High Mass in the

Sistine Chapel, having procured the "introduction from very high

quarters" which, even according to ordinary guide-books, is absolutely

necessary,--the "high quarters" in this instance being Monsignor

Gherardi. Apart from this absurdity,--this impious idea of needing an

"introduction" to a sacred service professedly held for the worship of

the Divine, by the Representative of Christ on earth, he had watched

with sickening soul all the tawdry ceremonial so far removed from the

simplicity of Christ's commands,--he had stared dully, till his brows

ached, at the poor, feeble, scraggy old man with the pale, withered

face and dark eyes, who was chosen to represent a "Manifestation of the

Deity" to his idolatrous followers;--and as he thought of all the

poverty, sorrow, pain, perplexity, and bewilderment of the "lost sheep"

who were wandering to and fro in the world, scarcely able to fight the

difficulties of their daily lot, and unable to believe in God because

they were never allowed to understand or to experience any of His

goodness, such a passion of protest arose in him, that he could have

sprung on the very steps of the altar and cried aloud to the aged

Manager of the Stage-scene there, "Away with this sham of Christianity!

Give us the true message of Christ, undefiled! Sell these useless

broidered silks,--these flaunting banners;--take the silver, gold, and

bank-notes which hysterical pilgrims cast at your feet!--this Peter's

Pence, amounting to millions, whose exact total you alone know,--and

come out into the highways and byways of the cities of all lands,--call

to you the lame, the halt, the blind, the sickly, and diseased,--give

comfort where comfort is needed,--defend the innocent--protect the

just, and silence the Voce de la Verita which published under your

authority, callously advocates murder!"

And though he felt all this, he could only remain a dumb spectator of

the Show in which not the faintest shadow of Christianity according to

Christ, appeared--and when the theatrical pageant was over, he hurried

out into the fresh air half stupefied with the heavy sense of shame

that such things could be, and no man found true enough to the commands

of the Divine Master to shake the world with strong condemnation.

"Twelve fishermen were enough to preach the Gospel," he thought, "Yet

now there cannot be found twelve faithful souls who will protest

against its falsification!"

And on St. Cecilia's morning he was in sad and sober mood,--too vexed

with himself to contemplate his future work without a sense of pain and

disappointment and loneliness. He loved Sylvie Hermenstein, and

admitted his passion for her frankly to his own soul, but at the same

time felt that a union with her would be impossible. He had seen her

nearly every day since their first introduction to each other, and had

realised to the height of soul-intoxication the subtle charm of her

delicate beauty, and the sweetness of her disposition. But--(there was

a but in it,--there always is!) he was not sure of her constancy. The

duel between the Marquis Fontenelle and the actor Miraudin had

furnished food for gossip at all the social gatherings in Rome, and

Sylvie's name, freely mentioned as the cause of the dispute, had been

thus given an unpleasant notoriety. And though Aubrey Leigh was far too

chivalrous and noble-natured to judge and condemn a woman without

seeking for the truth from her own lips, he was indescribably annoyed

to hear her spoken of in any connection with the late Marquis. He had a

strong desire to ask Angela Sovrani a few questions concerning the

affair, but hesitated, lest his keen personal anxiety should betray the

depth of his feelings. Then, too, he was troubled by the fact that the

Hermenstein family had been from time immemorial devout Romanists, and

he felt that Sylvie must perforce be a firm adherent to that faith.

"Better to leave Rome!" he said to himself, "Better to shake off the

witchery of her presence, and get back to England and to work. And if I

cannot kill or quell this love in me, at any rate it shall serve me to

good purpose,--it shall make me a better and a braver man!"

He had promised to meet the Princesse D'Agramont that morning at the

Catacombs of St. Callistus, to see the illumination of the tomb of St.

Cecilia, which takes place there annually on the Saint's Feast-Day, and

he knew that Angela Sovrani and the Comtesse Hermenstein were to be of

the Princesse's party. He was somewhat late in starting, and hired a

fiacre to drive him along the Via Appia to his destination, but when he

arrived there Mass had already commenced. A Trappist monk, tall and

grim and forbidding of aspect, met him at the entrance to the Catacombs

with a lighted taper, and escorted him in silence through the gloomy

"Oratorium" and passage of tombs,--the torch he carried flinging

ghastly reflections on the mural paintings and inscriptions, till, on

reaching the tomb of St. Cecilia where the murdered saint once lay,

though her remains are now enshrined in the Church of St. Cecilia in

Trastevere, the Trappist suddenly left him at a corner to attend to

other incoming visitors, and disappeared. Aubrey looked around him,

vaguely touched and awed by the solemnity of the scene;--the damp walls

on which old Byzantine paintings of the seventh century were still

visible, though crumbling fast away,--the glimmering lights,--the

little crowd of people pressed together,--the brilliantly illuminated

altar,--the droning accents of the officiating priests;--and presently

the sound of a boy's exquisite young voice rose high and pure, singing

the Agnus Dei. St. Cecilia herself might have been enraptured by such

sweet harmony,--and Aubrey Leigh instinctively bent his head, moved

strongly by the holy and tender fervour of the anthem. Growing

accustomed to the flickering lights, he presently perceived the

Princesse D'Agramont a little in front of him,--and beside her were her

two friends, Angela Sovrani and Sylvie Hermenstein. Sylvie was

kneeling, and her face was hidden. Angela was seated,--and her eyes,

full of the radiance of thought and dreaming genius, were fixed on the

altar. Gradually he moved up till he reached the rough bench where they

were all together--the Princesse D'Agramont saw him at once, and signed

to him to take a vacant place next to Sylvie. He sat down very

gently--afraid to disturb the graceful figure kneeling within touch of

his hand--how devout she seemed, he thought! But as the Agnus Dei

ceased, she stirred, and rose quietly,--as quietly as a bent flower

might lift itself in the grass after the rush of the wind,--and gave

him a gentle salute, then sat down beside him, drooping her soft eyes

over her prayer-book, but not before he had seen that they were wet

with tears. Was she unhappy he wondered? It seemed impossible! Such a

woman could never be unhappy! With beauty, health, and a sunny

temperament,--wealth and independence, what could she know of sorrow!

It is strange how seldom a man can enter into the true comprehension of

a woman's grief, though he may often be the cause of the trouble. A

woman, if endowed with beauty and charm, ought never, in a man's

opinion, to LOOK sad, whatever she may FEEL. It is her business to

smile, and shine like a sunbeam on a spring morning for his delectation

always. And Aubrey Leigh, though he could thoroughly appreciate and

enter into the sordid woes of hard-worked and poverty-stricken

womankind, was not without the same delusion that seems to possess all

his sex,--namely, that if a woman is brilliantly endowed, and has

sufficient of this world's goods to ensure her plenty of friends and

pretty toilettes, she need never be unhappy. Sylvie's tears were

therefore a mystery to him, except when a jealous pang contracted his

generally liberal and tender soul, and he thought, "Perhaps she is

grieving for the Marquis Fontenelle!" He glanced at her every now and

again dubiously,--while the service went on, and the exquisite music

beat rhythmic waves against the ancient walls and roof of the murdered

Saint's tomb,--but her face, fair and childlike, was a puzzle to his

mind,--he could never make out from its expression whether she were

thoughtful or frivolous. Strange mistakes are often made in

physiognomy. Often the so-called "intellectual" face,--the

"touch-me-not" dignity--the "stalking-tragedy" manner, covers a total

lack of brain,--and often a large-featured, seemingly "noble" face, has

served as a mask for untold depths of villainy. The delicate, small

face of Nelson suggested nothing of the giant heroism in his nature,

and many a pretty, and apparently frivolous woman's face, which

suggests nothing but the most thoughtless gaiety, is a disguise for a

strong nature capable of lofty and self-sacrificing deeds. There is

nothing likely to be so deceptive as a human countenance,--for with the

exception of a few uncomfortably sincere persons, we all try to make it

disguise our feelings as much as we can.

The service concluded, and St. Cecilia solemnly commended once more to

her eternal rest, the people all rose and wandered like black ghosts,

through the darkness of the Catacombs, following the flicker of the

torches carried by the Trappist monks, who always perform the duty of

guides on this occasion,--and, once out in the open air, in the full

blaze of the sunshine which had now broken brilliantly through the mist

of the previously threatening rain-clouds, Aubrey Leigh saw with pain

that Sylvie looked very pale and ill. He ventured to say something

solicitous concerning this to the Princesse D'Agramont, whose bright

dark eyes flashed over him with an enigmatical look, half wonder, half

scorn.

"What strange creatures men are!" she said satirically, "Even you,

clever, and gifted with an insight into human nature, seem to be

actually surprised that our poor, pretty little Sylvie looks ill! With

half Rome declaring that she WAS the mistress of Fontenelle, and the

other half swearing itself black in the face that she IS the mistress

of Gherardi, she certainly ought to be very happy, ought she not?

Indeed, almost dancing with the joy and consolation of knowing how

pleasant her 'Society' friends are making her life for her!"

Aubrey's heart beat violently.

"Princesse," he said, in a low tone of vibrating earnestness, "If I

thought--if I could think such abominable lies were told of her . . ."

"Chut!" And the Princesse smiled rather sadly,--"It is not like you to

'pretend,' Mr. Leigh--You DO know,--you MUST know--that a coarse

discussion over her name was the cause of the duel between the Marquis

Fontenelle and that miserable vaurien of the stage, Miraudin,--gossip

generously lays the two deaths at her door--and the poor child is as

innocent of harm as the lilies we have just seen left to die in the

darkness of St. Cecilia's tomb. The fact is, she came to Rome to escape

the libertinage and amorous persecution of Fontenelle; and she never

knew till the day she heard of his death, that he had followed her. Nor

did I. In fact, I asked him to be my escort to Rome, and he refused.

Naturally I imagined he was still in Paris. So we were all in the

dark,--and as often happens in such cases, when the world does not know

whom to blame for a disaster, it generally elects to punish the

innocent. All the Saints we have heard about this morning, bear witness

to THAT truth!"

Aubrey lifted his eyes and looked yearningly at the sylph-like figure

of Sylvie walking a little ahead of him with her friend Angela.

"I thought," he said hesitatingly,--"I confess, I thought there might

have been something between her and the late Marquis . . ."

"Of course there was something!" answered the Princesse impatiently,

"Oh, mon Dieu! Plus de sottises! There always IS something where Sylvie

is, Mr. Leigh! She cannot smile or sing, or turn her head, or raise her

eyes, or smell a bunch of violets, without some one of your audacious

sex conceiving the idea of making himself agreeable and indispensable

to her. And when she will not compromise herself--(is that not your

convenient little phrase?)--she is judged much more severely than if

she had done so! And do you know why? Because you men can never endure

defeat in love-matters! You would rather spread abroad the rumour that

you had conquered, than confess that your libertinism had been

perceived and repulsed with indignation and scorn! And I will tell you

another thing if you do not know it. In the frequent destruction of an

innocent woman's reputation. it is a rejected suitor who generally

starts the first rumour and hands the lie over to debased women,

knowing that THEY may be trusted to keep it up!"

Aubrey flushed, and winced under the lash of her cutting words. "You

are very cruel, Princesse!" he said, "Surely unnecessarily bitterly

cruel!"

"Cher philosophe, I have loved!" she replied, "And that is why I am

cruel. I have loved and have been deceived in love,--and that kind of

thing often turns the most patient Griselda into an exceptionally

fierce tiger-cat! I am not quite a tiger-cat,--but I confess I do not

like one-sidedness in anything, Nature's tendency being to

equalise--equalise--till we are all flattened down into one level,--the

grave! At the present moment we are treading on a mixture of kings and

saints and heroes,--all one soil you see, and rather marshy,--badly in

need of draining at all times!" She laughed a little. "Frankly, I

assure you, it is to me the most deplorable arrangement that a true

woman should be destined to give all the passion and love of her life

to one man, while the same man scatters his worthless affections about

like halfpence among dozens of drabs! My dear Mr. Leigh, do not frown

at me in that tragic way! I am not blaming YOU! I am not in the least

inclined to put you in the general category,--at least not at present.

You do not look like the ordinary man, though you may be for all that!

Expression is very deceptive!" She laughed again, then added, "Think of

our sweet Angela, for instance! Unless a merciful Providence

intervenes, she will marry Florian Varillo,--and no doubt he will make

her invite Mademoiselle Pon-Pon to her house to dine and sleep!"

"She loves him!" said Aubrey simply.

"Yes, she loves him, because she deludes herself with the idea that he

is worthy of love. But if she were to find him out her whole soul would

indignantly repulse him. If she knew all _I_ know of him, she would

rather embrace the mildewy skeleton of San Carlo Borromeo, with the

great jewels glistening in his ghastly eye-sockets, than the well-fed,

fresh coloured Florian Varillo!"

"If you fear for her happiness, why not warn her?" asked Aubrey.

"Warn her against the one creature she loves in the world?" said the

Princesse, "Thanks very much! I would rather not. She would never speak

to me again, and I should lose every chance of comforting or helping

her when affliction comes--as of course it is bound to come! Each

individual man or woman makes his or her own life,--we poor 'friends'

can only stand and look on, waiting till they get into the muddle that

we have always foreseen, and then doing our best to drag them out of

it; but God Himself I think, could not save them from falling into the

muddle in the first place. As for Sylvie, I have advised her to leave

Rome and go back to Budapest at once."

Aubrey started.

"Why?"

"Why? Can you ask? Because she is misjudged here on account of

Fontenelle's death, and calumniated and wronged; because the women hate

her for her beauty and wealth, and the men hate her too because she

will not flatter them by accepting their ridiculous attentions. She

will be much happier in her own home,--such a grand old castle it

is!--a cluster of towers and broad battlements, with purple mountains

in the background, and tall pine-trees everywhere . . ."

"It must be lonely for her!" said Aubrey quickly, "She is so

mignonne--so caressable--so made for love and care and tenderness--"

Here he broke off, vexed with himself for having said so much,--and his

face flushed warmly. The Princesse stopped in her walk and looked at

him straightly.

"Mr. Leigh," she said, "I think--I hope you are an honest man! And do

you know the best advice I can give you?"

He answered no word, but his eyes questioned her meaning.

"Remain honest!" she said, smiling an answer to his look, "Be true to

your own instincts and highest impulses. Do not allow yourself to be

swayed by opinion or rumour; stand clear of both,--and treat even a

woman as you would treat a man!--squarely--candidly--faithfully!"

She moved on and rejoined her companions, and Aubrey followed. The

Comtesse Hermenstein's carriage was waiting for her, and the Comtesse

herself was just entering it with Angela Sovrani as he came up.

"Good-bye, Mr. Leigh," she said gently, extending her hand, "I may not

see you again perhaps. I am going home to Buda this week."

"Must you go?" he asked, looking earnestly into the lovely eyes,

lovelier than ever in their present sorrowful languor.

"I think so," she answered, "I may wait to see Angela's great picture,

but--"

"Do not hurry your departure," said Aubrey, speaking in a softer

tone--"Tell me--may I come and see you this evening,--just for a few

moments?"

His eyes rested on her tenderly, and at the passion of his glance her

own fell.

"If you like--yes," she murmured. And just then the Princesse

D'Agramont approached.

"May I drive you home, Mr. Leigh?" she asked.

"Thank you!" And Aubrey smiled as he accepted the invitation.

And presently the carriages started, Sylvie's light victoria leading,

and the Princesse D'Agramont's landeau following. Half way back to Rome

a picturesque little beggar, whose motley-coloured rags scarcely

clothed his smooth brown limbs, suddenly sprang out of a corner where

he had been in hiding with a great basket of violets, and threw the

whole fragrant heap dexterously into Sylvie's carriage, crying out,

"Bellissima Signora! Bellissima! Bellissima! Un soldo! Un soldo!"

Laughingly Sylvie threw out four or five francs, but Aubrey, carried

beyond all prudence by catching a glimpse of Sylvie's pretty head

gleaming above the great purple cluster of violets she had caught and

held, tossed a twenty-franc piece to the clever little rascal who had

by "suiting the action to the word, and the word to the action" as

Italians so often do, gained a week's earnings in one successful

morning.

And the evening came, misty but mild, with the moon peering doubtfully

through a fleecy veil of fine floating vapour, which, gathering flashes

of luminance from the silver orb, turned to the witch-lights of an

opal,--and Aubrey made his way to the Casa D'Angeli, which in his own

mind he called the "Palais D'lffry," in memory of the old Breton song

Sylvie had sung. On giving his name he was at once shown up into the

great salon, now made beautiful by the picturesque and precious things

accumulated there, and arranged with the individuality and taste of the

presiding spirit. She was quite alone, seated in a deep easy chair near

the fire,--and her dress, of some faint shell-pink hue, clung about her

in trailing soft folds which fell in a glistening heap of crushed

rose-tints at her feet, making a soft rest for her tiny dog who was

luxuriously curled therein. The firelight shed a warm glow around

her,--flickering brightly on her fair hair, on her white arms, and

small hands where one or two diamonds flashed like drops of dew,--and

Aubrey, as he entered, was conscious of an overpowering sense of

weakness, poverty of soul, narrowness of mind, incompetency of

attainment,--for the tranquillity and sweet perfection of the picture

his eyes rested upon--a picture lovelier than even the Gretchen which

tempted Goethe's Faust to Hell,--made him doubtful of his own

powers--mistrustful of his own worth. In his life of self-renunciation

among the poorer classes, he had grown accustomed to pity women,--to

look upon them more or less as frail, broken creatures needing help and

support,--sometimes to be loved, but far more often to be despised and

neglected. But Sylvie, Comtesse Hermenstein, was not of these,--he

knew, or thought he knew that she needed nothing. Beauty was hers,

wealth was hers, independence of position was hers; and if she had

given a smile or nod of encouragement, lovers were hers to command.

What was he that he should count himself at all valuable in her sight,

even as the merest friend? These despondent thoughts were doubly

embittered by the immense scorn he now entertained for himself that he

should have been such a fool as to listen for a moment to the silly and

malignant gossip circulated among the envious concerning a woman who

was admittedly the superior of those who calumniated her. For clearest

logic shows that wherever superiority exists, inferiority rises up in

opposition, and the lower endeavours to drag the higher down. Such

vague reflections, coursing rapidly through his, brain, gave him an air

of embarrassment and awkwardness not by any means common to him, as he

advanced, and Sylvie, half rising from her chair, greeted him in her

turn with a little touch of shyness which sent a wave of soft colour

over her face, and made her look ten times prettier than ever.

"I am glad to find you alone--" he began.

"Yes? I am generally alone," answered Sylvie with a little

smile--"except for Katrine--she would be here to welcome you this

evening, but she has a very bad neuralgic headache--"

"I am very sorry," murmured Aubrey, with hypocritical earnestness, all

the while devoutly blessing Madame Bozier's timely indisposition. "She

is a great sufferer from neuralgia, I believe?"

"Yes . . ." and Sylvie, to divert the cloud of embarrassment that

seemed to be deepening rather than dispersing for them both, rang the

bell with a pretty imperativeness that was rather startling to Aubrey's

nerves.

"What is that for?" he enquired irrelevantly.

"Only for coffee!"

Their eyes met,--the mutual glance was irresistible, and they both

laughed. Sylvia's Arab page entered in response to her summons, a

pretty dusky-skinned lad of some twelve years old, picturesquely

arrayed in scarlet, and bearing a quaintly embossed gilt salver with

coffee prepared in the Arabian fashion.

"Do you like coffee made in this way?" asked Sylvie, as she handed

Aubrey his cup.

Aubrey's eyes were fixed on the small white hand that looked so dainty,

curled over the trifle of Sevres china that was called a

coffee-cup,--and he answered vaguely,

"This way? Oh, yes--of course--any way!"

A faint smile lifted the rosy corners of Sylvie's mouth as she heard

this incoherent reply--and the Arab page rolled his dark eyes up at his

fair mistress with a look of dog-like affectionate enquiry, as to

whether perhaps some fault in his serving had caused that little

playful enigmatical expression on the face which he, in common with

many others of his sex, thought the fairest in the world. The coffee

dispensed and the page gone, there followed a spell of silence. The

fire burned cheerily in the deep chimney, and the great logs cracked

and spluttered as much as to say, "If these two curious people can find

nothing to talk about, we can!" And then, just as luck would have it, a

burning ember suddenly detached itself from the rest and fell out

blazing on the hearth--Sylvie sprang up to push it back, and Aubrey to

assist her,--and then, strange to relate--only the occult influences of

attraction know how it happened--the little difficulty of the burning

ember brought those two other burning embers of humanity together--for

Aubrey, hardly conscious of what he did, caught Sylvie's swaying,

graceful figure as she rose from bending over the fire, closely in his

arms, with a passion which mounted like a wave to tempest height, and

knew no further hesitation or obstacle.

"Sylvie! Sylvie! I love you!--my darling! I love you!--"

No answer came, for there was none needed. Her face was hidden on his

breast--but he felt rather than saw the soft white arms and dainty

hands moving tremblingly upwards, till they closed round him in the

dear embrace which meant for him from henceforth the faith and love and

devotion of one true heart through all the sorrows and perplexities as

well as the joys and triumphs of life. And when, with his heart

beating, and all his pulses thrilling with the new ecstacy that

possessed him, he whispered a word or two that caused the pretty golden

head to raise itself timidly--the beautiful dark blue eyes to grow

darker with the tenderness that overflowed the soul behind them, and

the sweet lips to meet his own in a kiss, as soft and fragrant as

though a rose had touched them, it was small blame to him that for a

moment he lost his self-possession, and drawing her closer in his arms,

showered upon her not only kisses, but whispered words of all that

tender endearment which is judged as "foolish" by those who have never

had the privilege of being made the subject of such priceless and

exquisite "fooling." And when they were calmer, and began to think of

the possibility of the worthy Bozier suddenly recovering from her

neuralgia and coming to look after her pupil,--or the undesired but

likely entrance of a servant to attend to the lamps, or to put fresh

wood on the fire, they turned each from the other, with reluctance and

half laughing decorum,--Sylvie resuming her seat by the fire, and

Aubrey flinging himself with happy recklessness in a low fauteuil as

near to her as could be permitted for a gentleman visitor, who might be

considered as enthusiastically expounding literature or science to a

fascinating hostess. And somehow, as they talked, their conversation

did gradually drift from passionate personalities into graver themes

affecting wider interests, and Aubrey, warming into eloquence, gave

free vent to his thoughts and opinions, till noticing that Sylvie sat

very silent, looking into the fire somewhat gravely, he checked himself

abruptly, fancying that perhaps he was treading on what might be

forbidden ground with her whose pleasure was now his law. As he came to

this sudden pause, she turned her soft eyes towards him tenderly, with

a smile.

"Well!" she said, in the pretty foreign accent which distinguished her

almost perfect English, "And why do you stop speaking? You must not be

afraid to trust me with your closest thoughts,--because how can our

love be perfect if you do not?"

"Sweetheart!" he answered, catching the white hand that was so

temptingly near his own, "Our love IS perfect!--and so far as I am

concerned there shall never be a cloud on such a dazzling sky!"

She smiled.

"Ah, you talk romance just now!" she said, "But Aubrey, I want our love

to be something more than romance--I want it to be a grand and helpful

reality! If I am not worthy to be the companion of your very soul, you

will not, you cannot love me long. Now, no protestations!" For he had

possessed himself of the dear little hand again, and was covering it

with kisses--"You see, it is very sweet just now to sit by the fire

together, and look at each other, and feel how happy we are--but life

does not go on like that. And your life, my Aubrey, belongs to the

world . . ."

"To you!--to you!" said Aubrey passionately, "I give it to you! You

know the song?--I set my life in your hand Mar it or make it sweet,--I

set my life in your hand, I lay my heart at your feet!"

Sylvie rose impulsively, and leaning over his chair kissed his forehead.

"Yes, I know! And I know you mean what you say! I could not imagine you

telling an untruth,--not even in making love!" and she laughed, "Though

there are many of your sex who think any amount of lies permissible

under similar circumstances! And it is just because I have found men

such practised liars, that I have the reputation of being heartless.

Did you ever think me heartless?"

Aubrey hesitated a moment.

"Yes," he admitted at last, frankly, "I did till I knew better. I was

told--"

"Stop! I know all you were told!" said Sylvie, drawing her slim figure

up with a pretty dignity as she moved back to her place by the

fire--"You were told that I was the cause of the death of the Marquis

Fontenelle. So I was, unhappily--but not through my own fault. The

actor Miraudin,--known to be one of the most coarse-minded and brutal

of men,--slandered me in public,--the Marquis defended me. Hence the

combat and its fatal end, which no one has deplored more bitterly than

I. Miraudin was never a gentleman,--Fontenelle could have been one had

he chosen. And I confess I cared very much for him at one time!"

"You loved him," said Aubrey, trying to master a pang of jealousy.

"Yes! I loved him!--till he proved himself unworthy of love."

There was a silence.

"I tell you all this," said Sylvie then slowly and emphatically, "that

you may know me at once as I am. I wish to hide nothing from you. I

have read all your books--I know your views of life--your hatred of

dissimulation--your contempt of a lie! In your love for me, you must

have complete knowledge of my nature, and confidence in my truth. I

would never give my life to any man unless he trusted me

absolutely,--unless I was sure he felt I was a real helpmate for him. I

love you--but I also love your work and your aims; and I go with all

your thoughts and wish to share all your responsibilities. But I must

feel that you will never misjudge me,--never set me down on the level

of mean and small-natured women, who cannot sacrifice themselves or

their personal vanities for another's sake. It is not for me to say

that the calumnies circulated concerning me are untrue,--it is for my

life to show and PROVE they are not! But I must be trusted--not

suspected; and if you give me your life as you say, I will give mine to

help make yours happier, asking from you in return just your

faith--your FAITH as well as your love!"

Like a fair queen she stood, royal in her look, bearing and attitude,

and Aubrey bent his head low in reverence before her as he once more

kissed her hand.

"My wife!" he said simply.

And the silence that followed was as that of God's benediction on that

perfect marriage which is scarcely ever consummated in all the

world,--the marriage of two souls, which like twin flames, unite and

burn upward clear to Heaven, as One.