"How little I thought yesterday, even this morning, that we should be

riding side by side, Stafford," she said. "How little I thought I

should have you back again, my own, my very own! Don't all these months

you've been away seem like a dream to you? They do to me." She drew a

long breath. "Let us ride across the dale."

"You will find it wet there, had you not better keep to the road?"

"No, no," she said; "Adonis is dying for a gallop; see how he is

fretting."

Stafford looked at the horse curiously. He was champing his bit and

throwing up his head in a nervous, agitated manner which Stafford had

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never seen him display before.

"I can't make the horse out," he said, more to himself than Maude.

"Perhaps he'll be all right after a gallop."

They crossed the road at a trot, which was an uneven one on Adonis's

part, and got on the moor. Maude, still in high spirit, still buoyed up

by her feeling of triumph, talked continuously; telling him some of the

London news, planning out their future. They would have a house in

London, Stafford should take his proper place in the world; they would

step back to the high position which was his by right, as a peer of the

realm. Stafford was scarcely listening. A question was haunting him, a

question which he could not thrust from him: he was going to marry

Maude Falconer, going to take the hard and stony road of duty which

Ida, in her noble way, had pointed out to him. Ought he not to tell

Maude about Ida and his broken engagement to her; would it not be

better for both of them, for all of them, if he were to do so? He would

have to tell her that he could not live at the Villa; she would want to

know the reason; would it not be better to tell her?

He raised his head to begin; when suddenly he saw, going up the hill in

front of them, a horse and horsewoman. She was walking up slowly, and,

long before her figure stood out against the clear sky, he saw that it

was Ida. It is scarcely an exaggeration to say that his heart stood

still. That she should have appeared before him in his sight, at such a

moment, while he was riding beside his future wife--his future

wife!--filled him with bitterness. His face must have paled, or Maude

must have seen him start, for she looked at him and then turned her

head and looked in the direction in which his eyes were fixed. She

recognised Ida instantly; the colour rushed to her face; her hand

tightened on her rein spasmodically; for a moment she felt inclined to

turn aside, to ride away, escape from the girl she hated and loathed.

And then she was moved by another impulse; the demon of jealousy

whispered: "This is the moment of your triumph; why not enjoy it to the

full; why not let her feel the bitterness of defeat? There is your

rival! Let her see with her own eyes your triumph and your happiness."

The temptation was too great for her, and she yielded to it.




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