"Lance," she murmured, "I must avail myself of this, the only opportunity I have had, to crave your pardon and forgetfulness for a confession which I too sadly remember with blushes of shame for my madness and folly. Forgive me for recurring to that moment of frenzy and shame. I only do so to entreat your pardon and crave your forgetfulness."

He felt the small hand trembling within his arm where it rested, like a fluttering bird; looking down in the brilliant moonlight he saw tears shining like drops of dew on her down-drooped lashes.

He did not answer, and she continued, in a voice full of sadness and shame:

"Words cannot paint my grief and shame for that deeply deplored confession. Not shame that I love you, Lance, but shame that in an hour of impulsive and pa.s.sionate abandonment, I showed you the secret of my heart and gained in return your bitterest scorn."

"No, no, you mistake me, dear madam," said he, struggling for words to rea.s.sure her. "It was not scorn--it was grief that moved me to speak as I did. I felt your words dimly as an outrage on the modesty of womanhood--oh, forgive me, I do not know how to express myself," cried he, feeling himself floundering into deeper depths with every effort he made to extricate himself.

"You express yourself only too clearly," she cried with inexpressible bitterness; "I see that my fault will never be forgiven or forgotten."

"Oh! indeed it will," cried Lance eagerly, trying to condone his offensive words. "What I meant to say was this; I felt very badly over your words at first, but since I have seen how much you regret your rashness I have ceased to consider it anything but a momentary indiscretion which I trust soon to wholly forget, when you will again be reinstated in my whole confidence and respect."

"Oh! thank you, thank you," she cried, chafing at the coldness of his words, but trying to content herself since she could extract no kinder speech from him. "Believe me, Lance, I will try to merit your confidence, and no indiscretion of mine shall wound you again."

"And we will drop that subject forever, will we not?" said he, leading her up the hotel steps and into the warm, lighted parlor.

"Forever!" she answered with a quivering sigh.

He drew forward a chair before the glowing coal fire and led her to it.

"You must feel tired and cold after your long walk," he said; "I will have something warm sent in while I inquire about the sleigh."

He went away and directly a neat serving-maid entered, bearing a tray of warm refreshments.

Mrs. Vance drank some coffee, but had no appet.i.te for the viands, warm and delicious as they appeared, so the maid, with a courtesy took the tray and retired.

She waited some time before Lance returned. He came in looking pale and troubled.

"It is too bad," he said in a tone of vexation, "but Dabney's sleigh which I counted on confidently as being available was hired out in the earlier part of the evening to a couple of young fellows off on a lark into the country. They will not return until to-morrow evening."

"Then what are we to do?" she asked.

The young fellow smothered some sort of a vexed e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.n between his mustached lips.

"We are to be patient," he answered, grimly. "Dabney knows a man a mile away from here who keeps a sleigh. He has sent off on the mere chance of its being at home to secure it for us."

He went out and left her sitting before the fire gazing into the glowing coals thoughtfully.

After he had gone she took out her watch and looked at it.

"Twelve o'clock," she repeated to herself, putting the watch quietly back.

Lance returned after an hour of patient waiting, accompanied by Mr.

Dabney himself.

"We have been very unfortunate, indeed, in being unable to secure you a conveyance of any sort to-night, madam," he said, courteously. "It is now after one o'clock and all efforts have failed. Would it please you to retire and wait until morning? We will then provide comfortable means for your return."

She looked at Lance timidly.

"It is the only thing to be done," he answered, moodily. "I would walk to the city myself if it were the slightest use; but I am an indifferent walker, and could not possibly get back here till long after daylight; so the only course I see open is to wait for a sleigh which is promised me in the morning."

"If that is the case," she answered, sadly, "I should be glad to retire.

I am very tired, and feel the shock of my accident painfully."

The gentlemen retired, and a maid came in and showed Mrs. Vance to a sleeping apartment. She locked the door, and threw herself wearily across the bed. She was laboring under some strong excitement. No sleep refreshed her burning eyelids that night. At daylight the little maid knocked at the door with a tempting breakfast arranged on a tray.

"The sleigh has arrived, and is waiting until you have your breakfast,"

said she, politely.

Mrs. Vance bathed her face and hands, re-arranged her disordered hair, and after doing full justice to the tray of viands, descended to Lance, who impatiently waited her coming.

He helped her into the sleigh, took up the reins and set off homeward.

"I hope you slept well?" he remarked, to break the awkward silence.

She turned her dark eyes up to meet his questioning glance. He saw with surprise they were hollow, languid and sleepless, while a glance of ineffable anguish shone upon him.

"Could I sleep well, do you think?" she inquired, in a voice full of pa.s.sionate reproach. "Could I sleep at all, knowing the dreadful fate which awaits me?"

"I fail to understand you," said he, in a voice of perplexity.

"You cannot be so blind, Lance. You are only playing with me," she murmured, sadly.

"Pray explain yourself," he answered. "I give you my word of honor that your speech and manner simply mystify me. What dreadful fate awaits you, Mrs. Vance?"

She turned upon him a moment with flashing eyes, then looked down again as she answered in low, intense tones:

"Do you not understand, Lance, what my pride shrinks from telling you in plain terms?--the bitter truth that my stay with you last night at the Dabney Hotel has irretrievably compromised my fair fame in the eyes of the carping and censorious world?"

She paused, and Lancelot Darling sat still and motionless like one stricken with paralysis.

"Oh! that is impossible," he said at last. "No one knows of our accident."

"All New York will know it to-morrow," she said, bitterly. "Ill news flies apace. To-morrow the finger of scorn will be lifted against me on every hand. Perhaps even Mr. Lawrence will turn me out of doors."

The reproach and pa.s.sion had died out of her voice. It was full of pathetic pity for her own sorrow.

"Surely it cannot be as bad as you fear," said Lance, startled and troubled.

"Alas! it is too sadly true!" she said, mournfully.

"What can I do to remedy your trouble?" he inquired, his native chivalry rising to the surface in defense of the woman he had unwittingly injured.

"What _can_ a man do in such cases?" she asked, in a low and meaning tone.

"Marry, I suppose?" he said, after a long hesitation.