The play was over at last. The storm of hot-house bouquets had rained upon the stage at the feet of Madame Dolores. The curtain had fallen, the lights were dim. She had passed to her carriage with downcast eyes that did not see the two men who waited outside the door, taking no note of each other's presence in their eager desire that one glance from those dark eyes might fall upon them. But they lingered in vain. The long lashes did not lift from the white cheeks. The closing door shut her in from their sight. The two men who loved her, each in his own fashion, left the scene disappointed and sad, while Jaquelina rode home to spend the long hours of the night in a weary, sleepless vigil. She was wondering over and over in a weary, dazed way if Ronald Valchester would take her at her word and marry Violet. "If he marries her--poor Violet," she said to herself, sadly and tearfully, "I wish to be quite out of the country before it takes place." Then it came to her mind that perhaps she was selfish in the wish. "Not that I wish it not to be," she said. "I pity poor Violet, and I pity Ronald. He will learn to love her in time. She is fair and sweet. They may be happy yet." She walked up and down the floor in her long, white dressing-gown, her dark hair trailing loosely over her shoulders, a pathetic despair in the dark eyes and in the droop of the red lips. "They may be happy," she repeated, "happy--while I--oh, God!" with a sudden gesture of wild despair; "oh, God! how much longer must I live to bear my burden of sorrow?" She fell upon the floor, and lay there moaning and weeping for long hours. It was not often that tears came to those dark eyes, but to-night the sealed fountains of sorrow were unclosed, and the quick, refreshing tear-drops came quick and fast. They relieved her. They seemed to cool the fever of her blood, and lift the burden that weighed so heavily on her heart. No sleep came to the dark eyes that night. When her maid came to call her the next morning, she found her sitting wearily in a great cushioned arm-chair, her dark hair flowing about her in waving masses, her dark eyes fixed on vacancy with a grief, more pathetic than tears, in their shadowy depths. "Oh, my dear lady, you have not been in bed all night," she cried in dismay. Jaquelina looked at her in kind of vacant surprise. "Why, Fanchette, is it morning?" she asked, looking around at the drawn curtains and the flaring gas-light. "Oh, yes, madam, and here's a note which has just come for you, so I thought I had better bring it in, and not wait for your bell to ring, as it is getting late." Jaquelina took the delicately scented note and opened it almost mechanically. It was an incoherent scrawl from Violet Earle. "Oh, Lina, Lina!" it ran. "I told you you had ruined all our lives by coming back. That terrible Gerald Huntington has murdered our poor Walter this morning. He has spoken but once, and then only to ask for you. Come at once." CHAPTER XXXIV.