The Sign of the Stranger

by William Le Queux

my well-beloved. In her plain black, she presented a wan andfragile figure, yet upon her cheeks showed the flush of hope andpleasure, and as our lips met in a soft sweet caress I knew that she wasmine--mine for ever.

  We sat together at one of the long windows of that magnificent roomuntil the golden haze over the Park faded into dull crimson and theLondon day drew to a close, talking of the future and of what it meantto us, for she held in her hand a brief letter from her heart-brokenbrother, posted in Brussels, in which he wrote:--

  "I know that you love Willoughby and I have no objection whatever toyour marriage. I welcome it. He has saved your life, and he has savedour house from dishonour. In such circumstances, my dear Lol, nothingwill please me better than a union between you. He is poor, but tellhim not to worry on that account. You have sufficient for yourself, butI shall make over Chelmorton to you for your lifetime, which willprovide you both with income sufficient."

  "Ah!" I cried joyfully when I read that letter. "Then, after all,George does not object to my birth and station! He is indeed generous!"

  "No, dearest," was her kindly answer as she placed her hand tenderlyupon my shoulder and bent of her own accord to kiss my lips. "He doesnot object because he knows that we really love each other, and that noman has greater claim to me than yourself."

  The words spoken between us are surely of little import to you, myreader, save to know that we mutually resolved that the name of Marigoldshould never in all our lives again pass our lips. This and other firmresolves we made, until the autumn dusk darkened into night and thefootman entering to switch on the lights and draw the curtains, recalledus to the realities of the life about us.

  Since that glad reunion when I held my love in my arms, and she promisedto be my wife, nearly two years have passed happily, blissful years thathave slipped by like mere weeks so unheeded has been Time.

  And to-day? Well, there is little to record, save that this season thefamous Stanchester hounds are hunted by Frank Blew, the huntsman, forthe Earl has been, ever since our marriage, out in Mashonaland huntingwith his most intimate friend, the honest, big-handed, weather-beatensportsman, Richard Keene. Of Alfred Logan we see something on rareoccasions, for having been "set upon his legs" by George, he has now anincreasing architect's practice in Great George Street, Westminster,enjoying the great advantage of being the architect to the Stanchesterestates.

  And ourselves?

  After the terrible anxiety and awful suspicion of those dark,never-to-be-forgotten days all is now happiness. The barrier 'twixt meand the rapturous peace I so long panted for is removed, and we haveboth emerged at last from that fatal region of mystery and doubt. AtChelmorton Towers, the beautiful old ivy-covered place in Sussex whichGeorge so generously gave to his sister for our use during her lifetime,I live in the sunshine of Lolita's matchless beauty, charmed by thesecret tenderness of her voice and thrilled by her soft caresses.Nought else I desire. We have, both of us, found happiness in eachother's pure affection.

  And as day succeeds day, and every rising sun blesses me with sight ofmy sweet beloved and ushers in fresh ecstasy, I feel myself in fullpossession of the world of joy. In vain have I re-dipped my pen totrace the raptures that enchant me; but the thread is broken, and togive to language what my soul conceals is not in me, nor in the brain ofhuman nature to impart.

  Life and love are ours, and to us they are all-sufficient.

  The End.