come, no matter what the mill-stream said, no matter what his mother
wished. The day passed and the morrow came--the second of July. She rose
on that day and went down-stairs the shadow of her former self--pale,
cold, and silent. She did not say to herself "He will come to-day," hope
was dying within her. Then at noon came the letter--her maid brought it
in. She gave a low cry of delight when she saw the beloved handwriting,
that was followed by a cry of pain. He would not have written if he had
been coming; that he had written proved that he had no intention of
coming. She took the letter, but she dared not trust herself to open it
in the presence of her maid; but when the girl was gone, as there was no
human eye to rest on the tortured face she could not control, she opened
it.

Deadly cold seemed to seize her; a deadly shudder made the letter fall
from her hands.

No, he was not coming.

He _must_ go to Spain--to Spain, with his parents and a party of
tourists--but he loved her just the same, and he should return to her.

"He is weak of purpose," she said to herself when she had read the last
word; "he loves me still; he will come back to me; he will make me his
wife in the eyes of the law as he has done in the sight of Heaven. But
he is weak of purpose. The Countess of Lanswell has put difficulties in
his way, and he has let them conquer him."

Then came to her mind those strong words:

"Unstable as water, thou shalt not excel."

For the second time her servants found her cold and senseless on the
ground; but this time she had an open letter in her hand.

The pity was that the whole world could not see how women trust the
promises of men, and how men keep theirs.

CHAPTER XXXI.

A MAN OF WAX.

It is not pleasant to tell how the foundations of a noble building are
sapped: to tell how the grand, strong trunk of a noble tree is hacked
and hewn until it falls; how the constant rippling of water wears away a
stone; how the association with baser minds takes away the bloom from
the pure ones; how the constant friction with the world takes the dainty
innocence of youth away. It is never pleasant to tell of untruth, or
infidelity, or sin. It is not pleasant to write here, little by little,
inch by inch, how Lord Chandos was persuaded, influenced, and overcome.

The story of man's perfidy is always hateful--the story of man's
weakness is always contemptible. Yet the strongest of men, Samson, fell