beneath the love-light.

what followed was amazing, mystifying.

with a loud cry that startled me the grey figure had come swiftly towards us, and i then saw that it was a woman.

my companion and she flew into each other’s arms and exchanged wild joyful greetings, while i, catching sight of her face, stood there open-mouthed, breathless in sheer astonishment.

at that moment i doubted whether i were actually sane and in possession of all my senses. i doubted even my own eyes. and had you been there, in my place, i think you also would have been dumbfounded.

“fancy you—of all persons in this whole world!” lucie cried, then turning to me after kissing the newcomer with wild enthusiasm, she laughed, adding:—

“this gentleman is not altogether a stranger, i believe?”

the woman turned her flushed countenance to mine, and in the dim twilight our eyes met.

she started back with a loud cry, then, next instant, dashed forward to me, grasping both my hands.

“ella!” i ejaculated. it was all i could say.

“godfrey!—you?”

and she looked from me to lucie inquiringly, for having met us walking at that hour by that lonely brook she doubtless believed us to be lovers.

“i am godfrey leaf,” i said, grasping both her hands. “yes, i cannot realise that you are really ella—my own ella—from the grave?” and i still stood there stupefied.

“from the grave? what do you mean?” she asked, surprised.

“they told me that you were dead,” i cried quickly. “they said that you had caught typhoid, and that it ended fatally.”

“it is true that i had a bad attack of fever, and the doctors gave me up, yet somehow—i suppose by the perverseness of fate, because i had no further desire to live—i recovered. but you were abroad constantly, and therefore heard nothing of me.”

“i was in russia when i received news of your death, ella,” i said in a low voice, for there, in the presence of my love, i had become a changed man. “i have mourned for you until to-day.”

“i had no idea of this!” she exclaimed. “i have been living in ireland with my father. i have scarcely ever been in london since—since that night when we parted,” she faltered, lowering her eyes, as though fearing to meet my reproachful gaze.

“and how came you here?” lucie asked, as amazed as i was at her appearance.

“we came over from bournemouth to swanage this afternoon, and it suddenly occurred to me to come and see if you were in england. i wanted to see the dear old manor again—the house where you and i have spent so many very happy hours long ago. minton did not recognise me at first, but when he did he told me that you had gone out to the village two hours ago. i then made inquiries as to the direction you had taken, and fortunately found you here.”

“then your father is now at swanage?”

“yes. we are staying the night there. to-night a motor-car belonging to a friend of my father’s is coming from winchester to take us for a trip through devonshire and cornwall.”

“well, ella, you certainly gave us both a turn, appearing so suddenly,” declared lucie. “only half an hour ago we were speaking of you, and, like every one else, believed that you were dead.”

“i wonder who started such a report?” she said. “why did they say that i had died?”

“to trace the source of a false report is always difficult,” i said. “somebody surmises something and tells some one else, and the second person, in recounting it, declares the surmise to be the truth. it is almost always so.”

“there certainly could be no motive in saying that ella was dead, as far as i can see,” lucie declared. “but,” she added, “why let us worry about the past? you have come back to us—back really from the grave.”

“yes,” i said, still holding her hand. “i believed, ella, that you were dead long ago. the memory of that last night when we walked through the wet streets of bayswater has ever remained a bitter one.”

“no, no,” she cried. “do not recall it. i, too, have suffered agonies of regret. why is it that we meet again—like this?” and i noted that her splendid eyes were turned upon her friend in askance.

yes. she suspected that lucie and i were lovers, and such a conclusion was, after all, but natural.

“you are surprised, no doubt, to meet us together,” laughed lucie. “but if you knew the truth regarding our acquaintance you would be even more surprised.”

“then godfrey is not—”

“he is certainly not my lover,” she exclaimed. “i may as well make that quite clear to you at once, dear. we came here because he had something to explain to me, and we naturally had no desire that the villagers should gossip.”

my ella turned again to me, and i saw that all anxiety had faded from her beautiful countenance. she was sweet and smiling—her old delightful self again.

what had happened in those years i knew not. my love might be married, for aught i knew. she wore gloves, therefore i could not tell if her hand bore a wedding ring. she made no mention of blumenthal, and i could not well inquire of him. so we were both of us somewhat restrained, neither knowing of the exact position of the other.

i only knew that all the great passion i had entertained for her swelled within my heart, filling it to overflowing. the touch of her had thrilled me and i longed to kiss those sweet red lips once again—to repeat to her my love and to assure her that i was still unchanged.

but with lucie present i could say nothing. i could ask no question, nor could i make any declaration. yet in those few moments i had been lifted from the depths of despair and despondency to the pinnacle of happiness.

ella, my well-beloved, still lived! and while she lived she was still mine in heart, even though, perish the thought, she might be wife of another.

darkness was now falling, yet there was still sufficient light to reveal her wondrous beauty. as she stood before me in her pale grey dress and large black hat i recognised that she had grown even more beautiful than she had been in the days of our love romance. her figure was perfect in its symmetry; her countenance so lovely that even the uncommon beauty of lucie paled before her. those blue eyes that i knew were so unfathomable were turned upon me, and even there i saw in them the love-light that was unmistakable, that expression mysterious and indescribable that no woman is ever able to feign—the look, often unconscious, that tells a man that he is the object of passionate affection.

my heart leapt within me with wild ecstasy, yet i could not speak.

i only grasped her hand more tightly. then in order to cover the emotion that i saw was rising within her, i turned and made a casual remark to lucie that it was almost time we returned.

“of course,” she said quickly, recognising the situation. “you two have much to talk over alone. let us go.”

and together we moved forward along the path by, which my lost love had returned to me.

how can i describe to you my feelings in those moments? sometimes i found myself doubting whether it was not all some dream or some strange chimera of my unbalanced brain. but i held her hand, and found that it was real flesh and blood. my well-beloved still lived; she for whom i had mourned so long had returned, even more sweet and beautiful.

the village bells were pealing, the ringers practising probably.

“hark!” i said, as i walked at her side, treading on air from sheer buoyancy of spirits. “they are joy bells, ella. they ring because you have returned to me.” she laughed, turning those dear, wide-open eyes to mine, and said:—

“how often have i wondered where you were, and whether—” and she paused without completing the sentence.

“whether what?”

“well—whether you had, after all, forgotten me,” she said. “i never dreamed that you believed me dead. i thought, of course, that if you really loved me, as you used to say, that you would surely write to me or endeavour to see me when you knew that, after all, i had not married that man.”

“then you did not marry blumenthal after all!” i cried quickly. “was the engagement broken off?”

“yes. because of his ill-health. he released me when the doctors told him the truth—that he had only a few months to live. he died three months later.” and she grew silent again, and yet it seemed as if she wished to tell me something further. indeed she was about to do so, but checked herself.

“well!” i asked, in order to allow her an opportunity to speak.

“he was generous to me after all,” she went on. “the day before he died he sent for me, and i went and sat at his bedside. he knew his end was near, and after he had expressed deep regret that he had come between us—for he knew quite well that i loved you very dearly—he drew from beneath his pillow a large sealed envelope, making me promise to take it home, but not to open it until the day after his decease. next day he died, and on the day following i broke the seals and discovered, to my amazement and joy, that he had presented me with the mortgage deeds of wichenford. some years before my father had mortgaged our old home to him, and those very deeds he had made my price as his wife.”

“then for the great injustice he did you, ella, the fellow endeavoured to atone,” i said. “the mortgage, therefore, does not now exist.”

“of course not. i gave the deeds at once to my father, and they were that day destroyed, much to the chagrin of the heirs of the estate, who had long been scheming to become possessors of wichenford.”

“a most generous action,” lucie declared.

“yes, whatever i may have said of him, and however much i have hated him in the past, i cannot help acknowledging that before his death he rendered me the greatest service.”

“yet you were prepared to perform a noble self-sacrifice, ella,” i said, in a low, serious voice. “you kept your secret, and before we parted told me what was untrue. but lucie has revealed to me the astounding truth. only to-night, for the first time, have i realised all that your self-martyrdom meant—only to-night have i discovered that, after all, you still loved me just as fondly and with a passion just as fierce as my own—that even though engaged to blumenthal your dear heart was still my own.”