Here the widow sat in the hour of her desolation, unhonoured, unloved, without friend or counsellor; unless, indeed, the gallant soldier who had defended her from the suspicion of a hideous crime might stoop to befriend her further in her bitter need. She sat alone, uncertain, after the reading of the dead man's will, whether she might not be thrust forth from the doors of Raynham Castle, shelterless, homeless, penniless, once more a beggar and an outcast.

Her heart was so cruelly stricken by the crushing blow that had fallen upon her; the grief she felt for her husband's untimely fate was so deep and sincere, that she thought but little of her own future. She had ceased to feel either hope or fear. Let fate do its worst. No sorrow that could come to her in the future, no disgrace, no humiliation, could equal in bitterness that fiery ordeal through which she had passed during the last few days.

Lionel Dale was ushered into the morning-room while Lady Eversleigh sat by the hearth, absorbed in gloomy thought.

She rose as Lionel Dale entered the room, and received him with stately courtesy.

She was prepared to find herself despised by this young man, who would, in all probability, very speedily learn, or who had perhaps already learned, the story of her degradation.

She was prepared to find herself misjudged by him. But he was the nephew of the man who had once so devotedly loved her; the husband whose memory was hallowed for her; and she was determined to receive him with all respect, for the sake of the beloved and honoured dead.

"You are doubtless surprised to see me here, madam," said Mr. Dale, in a tone whose chilling accent told Honoria that this stranger was already prejudiced against her. "I have received no invitation to take part in the sad ceremonial of to-day, either from you or from Sir Reginald Eversleigh. But I loved Sir Oswald very dearly, and I am here to pay the last poor tribute of respect to that honoured and generous friend."

"Permit me thank you for that tribute," answered Lady Eversleigh. "If I did not invite you and your brother to attend the funeral, it was from no wish to exclude you. My desires have been in no manner consulted with regard to the arrangements of to-day. Very bitter misery has fallen upon me within the last fortnight--heaven alone knows how undeserved that misery has been--and I know not whether this roof will shelter me after to-day."

She looked at the stranger very earnestly as she said this. It was bitter to stand _quite_ alone in the world; to know herself utterly fallen in the estimation of all around her; and she looked at Lionel Dale with a faint hope that she might discover some touch of compassion, some shadow of doubt in his countenance.

Alas, no,--there was none. It was a frank, handsome face--a face that was no polished mask beneath which the real man concealed himself. It was a true and noble countenance, easy to read as an open book. Honoria looked at it with despair in her heart, for she perceived but too plainly that this man also despised her. She understood at once that he had been told the story of his uncle's death, and regarded her as the indirect cause of that fatal event.

And she was right. He had arrived at the chief inn in Raynham two hours before, and there he had heard the story of Lady Eversleigh's flight and Sir Oswald's sudden death, with some details of the inquest. Slow to believe evil, he had questioned Gilbert Ashburne, before accepting the terrible story as he had heard it from the landlord of the inn. Mr.

Ashburne only confirmed that story, and admitted that, in his opinion, the flight and disgrace of the wife had been the sole cause of the death of the husband.

Once having heard this, and from the lips of a man whom he knew to be the soul of truth and honour, Lionel Dale had but one feeling for his uncle's widow, and that feeling was abhorrence.

He saw her in her beauty and her desolation; but he had no pity for her miserable position, and her beauty inspired him only with loathing; for had not that beauty been the first cause of Sir Oswald Eversleigh's melancholy fate?

"I wished to see you, madam," said Lionel Dale, after that silence which seemed so long, "in order to apologize for a visit which might appear an intrusion. Having done so, I need trouble you no further."

He bowed with chilling courtesy, and left the room. He had uttered no word of consolation, no assurance of sympathy, to that pale widow of a week; nothing could have been more marked than the omission of those customary phrases, and Honoria keenly felt their absence.

The dead leaves strewed the avenue along which Sir Oswald Eversleigh went to his last resting-place; the dead leaves fluttered slowly downward from the giant oaks--the noble old beeches; there was not one gleam of sunshine on the landscape, not one break in the leaden grey of the sky. It seemed as if the funeral of departed summer was being celebrated on this first dreary autumn day.

Lady Eversleigh occupied the second carriage in the stately procession.

She was alone. Captain Copplestone was confined to his room by the gout. She went alone--tearless--in outward aspect calm as a statue; but the face of the corpse hidden in the coffin could scarcely have been whiter than hers.

As the procession passed out of the gates of Raynham, a tramp who stood among the rest of the crowd, was strangely startled by the sight of that beautiful face, so lovely even in its marble whiteness.

"Who is that woman sitting in yonder carriage?" he asked.

He was a rough, bare-footed vagabond, with a dark evil-looking countenance, which he did well to keep shrouded by the broad brim of his battered hat. He looked more like a smuggler or a sailor than an agricultural labourer, and his skin was bronzed by long exposure to the weather.

"She's Sir Oswald's widow," answered one of the bystanders; "she's his widow, more shame for her! It was she that brought him to his death, with her disgraceful goings-on."

The man who spoke was a Raynham tradesman.

"What goings-on?" asked the tramp, eagerly. "I'm a stranger in these parts, and don't know anything about yonder funeral."

"More's the pity," replied the tradesman. "Everybody ought to know the story of that fine madam, who just passed us by in her carriage. It might serve as a warning for honest men not to be led away by a pretty face. That white-faced woman yonder is Lady Eversleigh. Nobody knows who she was, or where she came from, before Sir Oswald brought her home here. She hadn't been home a month before she ran away from her husband with a young foreigner. She repented her wickedness before she'd got very far, and begged and prayed to be took back again, and vowed and declared that she'd been lured away by a villain; and that it was all a mistake. That's how I've heard the story from the servants, and one and another. But Sir Oswald would not speak to her, and she would have been turned out of doors if it hadn't been for an old friend of his.

However, the end of her wickedness was that Sir Oswald poisoned himself, as every one knows."

No more was said. The tramp followed the procession with the rest of the crowd, first to the village church, where a portion of the funeral service was read, and then back to the park, where the melancholy ceremonial was completed before the family mausoleum.

It was while the crowd made a circle round this mausoleum that the tramp contrived to push his way to the front rank of the spectators. He stood foremost amongst a group of villagers, when Lady Eversleigh happened to look towards the spot where he was stationed.

In that moment a sudden change came over the face of the widow. Its marble whiteness was dyed by a vivid crimson--a sudden flush of shame or indignation, which passed away quickly; but a dark shadow remained upon Lady Eversleigh's brow after that red glow had faded from her cheek.

No one observed that change of countenance. The moment was a solemn one; and even those who did not really feel its solemnity, affected to do so.

At the last instant, when the iron doors of the mausoleum closed with a clanging sound upon the new inmate of that dark abode, Honoria's fortitude all at once forsook her. One long cry, which was like a shriek wrung from the spirit of despair, broke from her colourless lips, and in the next moment she had sunk fainting upon the ground before those inexorable doors.

No sympathizing eyes had watched her looks, or friendly arm was stretched forth in time to support her. But when she lay lifeless and unconscious on the sodden grass, some touch of pity stirred the hearts of the two brothers, Lionel and Douglas Dale.

The elder, Lionel, stepped forward, and lifted that lifeless form from the ground. He carried the unconscious widow to the carriage, where he seated her.

Sense returned only too quickly to that tortured brain. Honoria Eversleigh opened her eyes, and recognized the man who stood by her side.

"I am better now," she said. "Do not let my weakness cause you any trouble. I do not often faint; but that last moment was too bitter."

"Are you really quite recovered? Can I venture to leave you?" asked Lionel Dale, in a much kinder tone than he had employed before in speaking to his uncle's widow.

"Yes, indeed, I have quite recovered. I thank you for your kindness,"

murmured Honoria, gently.

Lionel Dale went back to the carriage allotted to himself and his brother. On his way, he encountered Reginald Eversleigh.

"I have heard it whispered that my uncle's wife was an actress," said Reginald. "That exhibition just now was rather calculated to confirm the idea."

"If by 'exhibition' you mean that outburst of despair, I am convinced that it was perfectly genuine," answered Lionel, coldly.

"I am sorry you are so easily duped, my dear Lionel," returned his cousin, with a sneer. "I did not think a pretty face would have such influence over you."

No more was said. The two men passed to their respective carriages, and the funeral procession moved homewards.

In the grand dining-hall of the castle, Sir Oswald's lawyer was to read the will. Kinsmen, friends, servants, all were assembled to hear the reading of that solemn document.

In the place of honour sat Lady Eversleigh. She sat on the right hand of the lawyer, calm and dignified, as if no taint of suspicion had ever tarnished her fame.

The solicitor read the will. It was that will which Sir Oswald had executed immediately after his marriage--the will, of which he had spoken to his nephew, Reginald.

It made Honoria Eversleigh sole mistress of the Raynham estates. It gave to Lionel and Douglas Dale property worth ten thousand a year. It gave to Reginald a small estate, producing an income of five hundred a year. To Captain Copplestone the baronet left a legacy of three thousand pounds, and an antique seal-ring which had been worn by himself.

The old servants of Raynham were all remembered, and some curious old plate and gold snuff-boxes were left to Mr. Wargrave, the rector, and Gilbert Ashburne.

This was all. Five hundred a year was the amount by which Reginald had profited by the death of a generous kinsman.

By the terms of Sir Oswald's will the estates of Lionel and Douglas Dale would revert to Reginald Eversleigh in case the owners should die without direct heirs. If either of these young men were to die unmarried, his brother would succeed to his estate, worth five thousand a year. But if both should die, Reginald Eversleigh would become the owner of double that amount.

It was the merest chance, the shadow of a chance, for the lives of both young men were better than his own, inasmuch as both had led healthful and steadier lives than the dissipated Reginald Eversleigh. But even this poor chance was something.