"Oh, my father? He will be delighted. He's the best of fathers, a perfect model for parents. Ever since I can remember he has been good to me, a precious sight better, more liberal and generous, than I deserved; but lately, since I've known him--Ah, well, I can only say, dearest, that he will be delighted to hear that I have chosen a wife; and when he sees you--"

He stopped and held her at arm's length for a moment and looked down into the lovely face upturned to his with its sweet, girlish gravity.

--"Why, he will fall in love with you right out of hand! I think you will like my father, Ida. He--well, he's a taking sort of fellow; everybody likes him who knows him--really knows him--and speaks well of him. Yes, I'm proud of him, and I feel as safe as if he were here to say, in his hearty, earnest way: 'I wish you good luck, Stafford! And may G.o.d bless you, my dear!'"

He flushed and laughed as if a little ashamed of his emotional way of putting it.

"He's full of--of the milk of human kindness, is my father," he said, with a touch of simplicity which was one of the thousand and fifteen reasons why Ida loved him.

She gazed up at him thoughtfully and sighed.

"I hope he will like me," she said, all the pride which usually characterized her melted by her love. "I am sure that I shall like him--for loving you."

"You will see," said Stafford, confidently. "He will be as proud as a duke about you. You won't mind if he shows it a little plainly and makes a little fuss, Ida? He's--well, he's used to making the most of a good thing when he has it--it's the life he has led which has rather got him into the way of blowing a trumpet, you know--and he'll want a whole orchestra to announce you. But about your father, dearest? Shall I come to-morrow and ask for his consent?"

She looked up at him with doubt and a faint trouble in her beautiful eyes, and he heard her sigh regretfully.

"I am afraid," she said, in a low voice.

"Afraid?" He looked at her with a smile of surprise. "If anyone were to tell me that it was possible for you to be afraid, I shouldn't believe them," he said. "Fear and you haven't made acquaintance yet, Ida!"

She shook her head.

"I am so happy, so intensely happy, that I am afraid lest the G.o.ds should be jealous and s.n.a.t.c.h my happiness from me. I am afraid that if you come to-morrow, my father will say 'No,' will--"

--"Will have me shown out," said Stafford, gravely. "I see. I shouldn't be surprised."

"And--and then I should not be able to see you again."

He laughed at the idea.

"My dearest, if all the fathers in the world said 'No,' it wouldn't make any difference to me," he said, with that air of masterfulness, that flash of the eye which a woman loves in a man. "Do you think I should give you up, that I should be content to say, 'I'm very sorry, sir,' and go off--leave you--keep away from you!" He laughed again, and she nestled a little closer, and her small hand closed a little more tightly on his arm. "And you wouldn't give me up, refuse to see me, even if your father withheld his consent, would you, Ida?" he asked.

She looked straight before her dreamily. Then raised her eyes to his gravely.

"No; I could not. It is just that. I could not. Somehow I feel as if I had given you the right to myself and that nothing could alter it, nothing could take me away from you!"

How was it possible for him to refrain from lifting her in his arms and kissing the sweet, soft lips which made such a confession.

They walked on for a minute or two in silence, when she went on, as if she had been still considering the matter:

"No, you must not come, Stafford. My father is not strong, and--and--ah! well, you know, you saw him that other night--the first night we met--do you remember? And he was walking in his sleep again the other evening. If you were to come--if I were to tell him that--that you had asked me to be your wife, he might fly into a pa.s.sion; it might do him harm. Some time ago, when he was ill, the doctor told me that he must be kept quite quiet, and that nothing must be allowed to excite or irritate him. He is very old and leads so secluded a life--he sees no one now but myself. Oh, how I would like you to come; how good it would be if--if he would give me to you as other fathers give their daughters! But I are not risk it! I cannot!

Stafford"--she put her hands on his breast and looked up at him--"am I wrong to tell you all this--to let you see how much I love you? Is it--unmaidenly of me? Tell me if it is, and I will not do so for the future. I will hide my heart a little better than I am doing at present. Ah, see, it is on my sleeve!"

He took her arm and kissed the sleeve where her heart was supposed to be.

"I've read that men only love while they are not sure of a woman's love; that with every two persons it is one who loves and the other who permits himself or herself to be loved. Is that true, Stafford? If so, then it is I who love--alas! poor me!"

He drew her to him and looked into her eyes with a pa.s.sionate intensity.

"It's not true," he said, almost fiercely. "For G.o.d's sake don't say such things. They--they hurt, and hurt badly; they leave a bitter taste in the mouth, a nasty pang behind. And if it were true--but it isn't, Ida!--it is I who love. Good Lord! don't you know how beautiful you are? Haven't you a looking-gla.s.s in your room? don't you know that no girl that ever was born had such wonderful eyes, such beautiful hair?

Oh, my heart's love, don't you know how perfect you are?"

They had stopped under some trees near the ruined chapel, and she leant against one of them and looked up at him with a strange, dreamy, far-away look in her eyes which were dark as the purple amethyst.

"I never thought about it. Am I--do you think I am pretty? I am glad; yes I am glad!"

"Pretty!" he laughed. "Dearest, when I take you away from here, into the world, as my wife--my wife--the thought sends my blood coursing through my veins--you will create so great a sensation that I shall be half wild with pride; I shall want to go about calling aloud: 'She is my wife; my very own! You may admire--worship her, but she is mine--belongs to me--to unworthy Stafford Orme!'"

"Yes?" she murmured, her voice thrilling. "You will be proud of me? Of me, the poor little country girl who rode about the dales in a shabby habit and an old hat? Stafford, Jessie was telling me that there is a very beautiful girl staying at the Villa at Brae Wood--one of the visitors. Jessie said she was lovely, and that all the men-servants, and the maids, too, were talking about her. She must be more beautiful than I am."

"Which of the women do you mean?" he said, indifferently, with the supreme indifference which the man who is madly in love feels for every other woman than the one of his heart.

"She is a fair girl, with blue eyes and the most wonderful hair; 'chestnut-red with gold in it,' as Jessie described it to me. And she says that this girl wears the most beautiful diamonds--I am still quoting Jessie--and other precious stones, and that she is very 'high and mighty,' and more haughty than any of the other ladies. Who is it?"

"I think she must mean Miss Falconer--Miss Maude Falconer," said Stafford, as indifferently as before, as he smoothed one of the silken tresses on her brow, and kissed it as it lay on his finger. "It is just the way a slave would describe her."

"And is she very beautiful?" asked Ida.

"Yes, I suppose she is," he said.

"You suppose!" she echoed, arching her brows, but with a frank smile about her lips, the smile of contentment at his indifference. "Don't you know?"

"Well, yes, she is," he admitted. "I've scarcely noticed her. Oh, but yes, she is; and she sings very well. Yes, I can understand her making a sensation in the servants' hall--she makes one in the drawing-room.

But she's not my style of beauty. See here, dearest: it doesn't sound nice, but though I've spent some hours with Miss Falconer and listened to her singing, I have only just noticed that she is good-looking, and that she has a wonderful voice: they say up at the Villa that there's nothing like it on the stage--excepting Patti's and Melba's; but all the time she has been there I have had another face, another voice, in my mind. Ever since I saw you, down there by the river, I have had no eyes for any other woman's face, however beautiful, no ears for any other woman's voice, however sweet." She was silent a moment, as she clasped her hands and laid them against his cheek.

"How strange it sounds! But if you had chanced to see her first--perhaps you would not have fallen in love with me? How could you have done so? She is so very lovely--I can see she is, by Jessie's description."

He laughed.

"Even if I had not seen you, there was no chance of my falling in love with Miss Falconer, dearest," he said, smiling at her gravity and earnestness. "She is very beautiful, lovely in her way, if you like; but it is not my way. She is like a statue at most times; at others, just now and again, like a--well, a sleek tigress in her movements and the way she turns her head. Oh, there wasn't the least danger of my falling in love with her, even if I hadn't seen the sweetest and loveliest girl in all the wide world."

"And you will feel like that, feel so sure, so certain that you love me, even though you have seen and will see so many women who are far more beautiful than I am?" she said, dreamily.

"Sure and certain," he responded, with a long sigh. "If I were as sure of your love as I am of mine for you--Forgive me, dearest!" for she had raised her eyes to his with an earnestness that was almost solemn.

"You may be sure," she said, slowly. "I shall love you as long as I live. I know it! I do not know why. I only--feel it. Perhaps we may be parted--"

He laughed--but his hand closed on hers, and gripped them tightly.

--"But I shall always love you. Something has gone out of me--is it my heart?--and I can never take it back from you. Perhaps you may grow tired of me--it may be. I have read and heard of such things happening to women--you may see someone more beautiful than Miss Falconer, someone who will lead you to forget the little girl who rode through the rain in Herondale. If so, there will be no need to tell me; no need to make excuses, or ask for forgiveness. There would be no need to tell me, for something here"--she drew her hand from his and touched her bosom--"would tell me. You would only have to keep away from me--that is all. And I--ah well I should be silent, quite silent."

"Dearest!" he murmured, reproachfully, and with something like awe, for her brows were knit, her face was pale as ivory, and her eyes glowed.

"Why do you say this now, just as--as we have confessed our love for each other? Do you think I shall be faithless? I could almost laugh! As if any man you deigned to love could ever forget you, ever care a straw for any other woman!"

She turned to him with a shudder, a little cry that was tragic in its intensity, turned to him and clenched her small hands on his breast.

"Swear to me!" she panted; then, as if ashamed of the pa.s.sion that racked her, her eyes dropped and the swift red flooded her face. "No!