CHAPTER XVII.

HUSBAND AND WIFE.

Lady Hope stood in the middle of the room, breathless. The supreme joy
of her husband's presence drove every other feeling from her heart. She
forgot her brother, her step-child, everything, in the one thought that
he was near her. But, was it certain that he would come? How many
months, nay, years, had passed since he had entered that room, once so
dear to him that no other apartment in that spacious mansion seemed
pleasant? She had allowed nothing to be changed since those days. Year
by year those silken hangings and crimson cushions had lost their
brightness and grown threadbare; but he had pressed those cushions and
been shaded by the curtains, and that gave them a brightness and glory
to her which no stuffs of India or cloth of gold could replace.

She knew that he was offended, and doubted. But would he come? His step
grew slow; he paused. Would he retreat at last, and leave her there, in
an agony of disappointment?

No--after a moment's hesitation, the steps advanced. The very certainty
of his approach suffocated her. She had not deemed herself so weak. All
the strength left her frame.

She sank down upon a couch near the window. The moonlight fell over her
like a veil of silver tissue, and through it she looked like the Rachael
Closs of New York.

Lord Hope tore away the silvery veil with his presence, for the shadow
of his tall person fell across it, throwing the woman back into
darkness.

But the light which he took from her slanted across his face, and
softened it back to youth. Rachael reached forth her arms.

"Oh, Norton! have you come back again?"

Her voice vibrated between passion and pathos. Her trembling limbs
rustled the silken garments around her.

He stood looking at her, not sternly, but with grave sadness. It was
nearly two months since they had met, but he did not advance, or even
reach out his hand. Then she cried out, in a burst of bitter anguish:

"Oh, Norton, will you not speak to me?"

"Yes, Rachael," he said, very gently. "I came to speak with you."

Lord Hope advanced through the window. No lights were burning, for in
her sadness Rachael had thought the moonbeams enough.

She moved upon the couch, looking in his face with pathetic entreaty.

He sat down after a moment's hesitation, and took her hand in his.

Awhile before that hand had been cold as ice, but now a glow of feverish
joy warmed it, and her slender fingers clung aro