om an impulse. Do you know you have saved me from a nightmare? I am
older than you, Douglas, and I was beginning to wonder, to fear, whether
I might not be one of those poor, unfortunate creatures to whom God has
never given the power to love anything--and life sometimes was so cold
and lonely. You could light it all for me, dear, with your love. You
have shown me how different it could be. Don't go away.

"It is an easy thing I ask," he cried, hoarsely. "I have given you my
whole love--my whole life. I want yours."

"You are the only man, dear," she answered, "whom I have ever loved, and
I do love you."

"Your life too, every corner of it. I want it swept clear of shadows.
You need have no fear. If you were a murderess, or if every day of it
was black with sin, my love could never alter," he cried.

"Dearest," she whispered, "haven't I told you that you shall take my
life into your keeping and do with it what you will?"

He unwound her arms.

"And the past?"

"Everything you shall know--there's nothing terrifying--save that one
thing--and that before long."

"Is it like this," he cried, "that you have kept men in chains
before--watched them go mad for sport? I'll not be your slave,
Emily--shut out from your confidence--waiting day by day for God knows
what."

She drew herself up. A storm of passion blazed in her face. The new
tenderness which had so transfigured it, had passed away.

"Then go!" she ordered, pointing to the door. "You make a mockery of
what you call love. I never wish to see you again, Douglas Jesson."

He stood facing her for a moment without movement. Then he turned and
walked slowly out of the house.

CHAPTER XXXIV

THE WOOING OF CICELY

The completion of Douglas Jesson's novel was the principal event of the
following week. There had come no word from Emily de Reuss, nor had
Douglas himself sought her. Better, he told himself, to face his
suffering like a man, grapple with it once and for all, than to become
even as Drexley and those others, who had never found strength to
resist. She was beautiful, magnetic, fascinating, and he loved her; on
the other hand there was his self-respect and the strength of his
manhood. He was young, he had courage and a career--surely the battle
would go for him. But the days which followed were weary and the nights
were pitiless.

He finished his novel, doggedly and conscientiously. The great
publishing house who had been waiting for it had pled