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In a sombre way Lord Rokesle was a handsome man, and to-night, in brown and gold, very stately. His bearing savored faintly of the hidalgo; indeed, his mother was a foreign woman, cast ashore on Usk, from a wrecked Spanish vessel, and incontinently married by the despot of the island. For her, Death had delayed his advent unmercifully; but her reason survived the marriage by two years only, and there were those familiar with the late Lord Rokesle’s [Footnote: Born 1685, and accidentally killed by Sir Piers Sabiston in 1738; an accurate account of this notorious duellist, profligate, charlatan, and playwright is given in Ireson’s Letters.] peculiarities who considered that in this, at least, the crazed lady was fortunate. Among these gossips it was also esteemed a matter deserving comment that in the shipwrecks not infrequent about Usk the women sometimes survived, but the men never.

Now Lord Rokesle regarded Lady Allonby, the while that she displayed conspicuous interest in the play of the flames. But by and by, “O vulgarity!” said Lady Allonby. “Pray endeavor to look a little more cheerful. Positively, you are glaring at me like one of those disagreeable beggars one so often sees staring at bakery windows.”

He smiled. “Do you remember what the Frenchman wrote–et pain ne voyent qu’aux fenêtres? There is not an enormous difference between me and the tattered rascal of Chepe, for we both stare longingly at what we most desire. And were I minded to hunt the simile to the foot of the letter, I would liken your coquetry to the intervening window-pane,–not easily broken through, but very, very transparent, Anastasia.”

“You are not overwhelmingly polite,” she said, reflectively; “but, then, I suppose, living in the country is sure to damage a man’s manners. Still, my dear Orson, you smack too much of the forest.”

“Anastasia,” said Lord Rokesle, bending toward her, “will you always be thus cruel? Do you not understand that in this world you are the only thing I care for? You think me a boor; perhaps I am,–and yet it rests with you, my Lady, to make me what you will. For I love you, Anastasia–“

“Why, how delightful of you!” said she, languidly.

“It is not a matter for jesting. I tell you that I love you.” My Lord’s color was rising.

But Lady Allonby yawned. “Your honor’s most devoted,” she declared herself; “still, you need not boast of your affection as if falling in love with me were an uncommonly difficult achievement. That, too, is scarcely polite.”

“For the tenth time I ask you will you marry me?” said Lord Rokesle.

“Is’t only the tenth time? Dear me, it seems like the thousandth. Of course, I couldn’t think of it. Heavens, my Lord, how can you expect me to marry a man who glares at me like that? Positively you look as ferocious as the blackamoor in the tragedy,–the fellow who smothered his wife because she misplaced a handkerchief, you remember.”

Lord Rokesle had risen, and he paced the hall, as if fighting down resentment. “I am no Othello,” he said at last; “though, indeed, I think that the love I bear you is of a sort which rarely stirs our English blood. ‘Tis not for nothing I am half-Spaniard, I warn you, Anastasia, my love is a consuming blaze that will not pause for considerations of policy nor even of honor. And you madden me, Anastasia! To-day you hear my protestations with sighs and glances and faint denials; to-morrow you have only taunts for me. Sometimes, I think, ’tis hatred rather than love I bear you. Sometimes–” He clutched at his breast with a wild gesture. “I burn!” he said. “Woman, give me back a human heart in place of this flame you have kindled here, or I shall go mad! Last night I dreamed of hell, and of souls toasted on burning forks and fed with sops of bale-fire,–and you were there, Anastasia, where the flames leaped and curled like red-blazoned snakes about the poor damned. And I, too, was there. And through eternity I heard you cry to God in vain, O dear, wonderful, golden-haired woman! and we could see Him, somehow,–see Him, a great way off, with straight, white brows that frowned upon you pitilessly. And I was glad. For I knew then that I hated you. And even now, when I think I must go mad for love of you, I yet hate you with a fervor that shakes and thrills in every fibre of me. Oh, I burn, I burn!” he cried, with the same frantic clutching at his breast.