rite kinsman."

'Twas this last fact which was the bitterest thing of all, and which
made his fate most hard to bear with patience. What he had dreaded had
proven itself true, and more. Had my Lord Dunstanwolde been a stranger
to him or a mere acquaintance he could have escaped all, or at least
the greater part, of what he now must endure. As the chief of his house
his share in the festivities attendant upon the nuptials had been
greater than that of any other man. As one who seemed through their
long affection to occupy almost the place of a son to the bridegroom,
it had been but natural that he should do him all affectionate service,
show the tenderest courtesy to his bride, and behold all it most
tortured him to see. His gifts had been the most magnificent, his words
of friendly gratulation the warmest. When they were for a few moments,
on the wedding-day, alone, his Lordship had spoken to him of the joy
which made him pale.

"Gerald," he said, "I could speak to none other of it. Your great heart
will understand. 'Tis almost too sacred for words. Shall I waken from a
dream? Surely, 'tis too heavenly sweet to last."

Would it last? his kinsman asked himself in secret, could it? Could
one, like her, and who had lived her life, feel an affection for a
consort so separated from her youth and bloom by years? She was so
young, and all the dazzling of the world was new. What beauteous,
high-spirited, country-bred creature of eighteen would not find its
dazzle blind her eyes so that she could scarce see aright? He asked
himself the questions with a pang. To expect that she should not even
swerve with the intoxication of it, was to expect that she should be
nigh superhuman, and yet if she should fail, and step down from the
high shrine in which his passion had placed her, this would be the
fiercest anguish of all.

"Were she mine," he cried, inwardly, "I could hold and guide her with
love's hand. We should be lost in love, and follies and Courts would
have no power. Love would be her shield and mine. Poor gentleman,"
remembering the tender worship in my Lord's kind face; "how can she
love him as _he_ loves _her_? But oh, she should--she _should_!"

If in the arrogance of her youth and power she could deal with him
lightly or unkindly, he knew that even his own passion could find no
pardon for her--yet if he had but once beheld her eyes answer her
lord's as a woman's eyes must answer those of him she loves, it would
have