“No, I shall know no safety, no peace, no rest, until I am in my grave,” she said, mournfully. “My doom is on me--I cannot evade it.” “Mrs. Payton,” said Kenelm, “I am not what the world calls a lady’s man, but will you trust me? Will you tell me your story, and let me see if I can find some means of helping you?” She looked at him long and mournfully; her dark eyes grew soft and tender, her beautiful lips quivered. “No, I will not tell you,” she replied, sadly, “not because I cannot trust you, but because I will not bring you into conflict with a coward and villain.” “I am equal to it,” he said. “Yes, you are a hero, but you shall risk nothing for me, neither character, peace nor life.” “I would risk all for you, Mrs. Payton.” She had ceased to tremble, and stood before him in all the dignity of despair. Her voice was like the saddest, sweetest music of an æolian harp. She held out her hand with a gesture of farewell. “No,” she said, “the temptation is strong. I have never had a strong arm to lean on, or a strong heart to trust. I have been alone all my life. No, you shall risk nothing for me.” The tears that had filled her dark eyes rained down her face then, and the sight determined him. “You may do as you like, Mrs. Payton, but I refuse to leave you, trust me or not, as you will. I cannot see a lady in distress and leave her so.” “Then I must trust you,” she said. “I must tell you my story, and, when it is told, perhaps you will turn from me in loathing and disgust.” “Never while I live. I believe in you. If there is wrong, it is not of your doing, and I shall say so before the whole world.” “How I should have thanked God for a champion like you years ago,” she said. “Mr. Eyrle, come with me to the house. First let me ask you, have you never wondered who I am, and why I am here?” “Yes,” he replied, frankly. “Then promise me not to hate me when I tell you my real name.” CHAPTER XXXIX. LADY PELHAM. Many pictures lived in Kenelm Eyrle’s mind, one of the fairest was that of the balcony, with its twisted pillars and odorous flowers, where he sat that morning to hear Lady Pelham’s story. A large laburnum, with drooping, golden tresses, was near them, in full flower; a lilac, with full, tufted plumes, filled the air with fragrance; the white acacias were all in bloom; the mavis sang in the trees; there was a vision of drooping limes and spreading oaks, a balcony that might have served the “Queen of the Fairies” as a drawing-room. “Come with me,” she had said, “and I will tell you my story. Shall you hate me when you know that I am Lady Pelham?” If the sky had fallen at his feet he could not have been more surprised than when she said those words. This beautiful, winsome creature, whose every frank mood was a fresh charm. Lady Pelham, the most noted name a short time since in all England. They had entered the house together, and she had gone at once to Miss Hanson.