Then Lady Elaine forgot the news of his marriage, and cast herself at his feet in a paroxysm of tears. CHAPTER XXII. “TO-MORROW SHALL DECIDE.” It was a trying moment--a moment never to be forgotten by Sir Harold and Lady Elaine--never to be forgotten by Nina, who was looking helplessly on. “Not false, Harold--not false to you in word or deed!” cried Lady Elaine. “Oh, my dear love, why did you doubt me? Why were you so cruel?” “Hush!” he whispered. “I am not yet quite clear as to your meaning. My brain is on fire. Let me think--think! All this is so strange. You do not know what has happened--you--oh! the pain is maddening! I cannot bear it!” In an instant my lady was on her feet, in her eyes a look of infinite love and pity. “I know that there is now an impassable barrier between us, Sir Harold,” she said, “and that it is wrong for me to even speak to you upon familiar terms. Do not think that I shall forget my duty.” He held out his hands blindly, saying: “I must see you again, Elaine--my lost darling! Theresa is waiting for me--poor Theresa. I will come to the park another day, when my head pains me less.” He shook hands with her and staggered away. The forgotten past was passing before him like a dream within a dream. He never knew how he reached the hotel. He had lost all count of time and space; his eyes were bloodshot, his lips and tongue parched and dry. He was late, and Theresa met him with tear-stained cheeks and hollow eyes. At sight of his haggard face her thoughts immediately fled to the story that Margaret Nugent had told her--the story of the vendetta. “Harold, dear Harold, my husband,” she cried, “you are ill!” He pushed her from him, but the next instant turned to comfort her. “Yes, little one, I am ill, and I wish that I might die! What sin is mine that my misery should be so great that others should be cursed by the relentless fate that pursues me? Theresa, poor little confiding Theresa! Do not look at me in that way, dear one. I will shield you from every threatening storm. You will not be disappointed, Theresa, but we cannot leave London until to-morrow night. I have not completed my business yet; I have arranged for one more interview with--with an old friend.” She noted his hesitation, and a pang shot through her heart. “Is it imperative, Harold?” she asked. “I hate London so much--I hate it for your sake, darling. The hum that ever sounds in my ears sings of strife and woe, and every strange footstep fills me with undefinable terrors.” “Silly girl!” he said, pettishly. “Ah, my brain is surely bursting! Send that footman away!” “Footman, Harold? There is no one in the room except ourselves!” she cried, clinging to him tightly. He laughed a hollow laugh, and reeled toward his bedroom, uttering wild words. “Who is this,” he said, “that dares stand between me and freedom? Who has robbed me of my love of my life? Oh, cursed is my fate!”