CHAPTER I.

The Rift within the Lute.

    “There is nothing but death
      Our affections can sever,
    And till life’s latest breath,
      Love shall bind us forever.”

The words, as they flowed musically from the throat of the fair singer at the piano, were inflected with a subtle irony, which caused the frown to deepen upon the brow of the tall, scholarly, though somewhat morose-looking man who had entered the parlor soon after the singer had begun, and who, without glancing in her direction, had seated himself on one of the many luxurious chairs which strewed the room.

As he sat and listened to the song, sweet and simple in itself, but made with deft and almost imperceptible intonation on certain words, clearly for his ear, the stern lines about his mouth visibly deepened.

Finally the song ceased, and the singer swung slowly and noiselessly round and looked across at her husband, whose back was turned towards her.  From the brilliant look in her eyes, it was evident she was laboring under suppressed excitement.  She was a young woman of about twenty-six, singularly beautiful and with a fine intellectual cast of countenance.  From her shoulders hung a richly-lined opera cloak, which, being fastened only at the throat, disclosed a figure of more than ordinary grace and symmetry.

As her husband continued silent, she presently arose, and with a peculiar smile playing about her mouth, walked calmly over to him, and laying her hand on the back of his chair, said, in a voice in which the same subtle tone was noticeable:  “My lord, you see I have obeyed, and have not gone out without coming here, as commanded by you, to learn your pleasure regarding my coming in and going out.”

Harold Townsley arose hastily, and said sternly and angrily, as he faced her:  “Was it necessary, Grace, to sing that song in such a manner?  Did you wish me to understand through it the state of your present feelings toward me?  I dislike to harbor the thought that you chose the song, and began to sing it in the manner you did, the moment you heard me coming.”

Had his tone been less angry and stern, her reply might not have been so bitterly cutting.

“Your questions, Harold, I must say, are pointed ones,” she answered, as, seating herself, she broke into a seemingly disingenuous smile, and shook her head protestingly; “and it seems to me that they are utterly uncalled for, too.  Our life for the past two years should have demonstrated that fact.  However, to answer your questions:  Your intuitions were correct; I did choose that song purposely for you, and only began to sing it when I heard you coming.  As to the question of my sentiments toward you:  When you remember that it is scarcely twenty minutes since you, once more, bitterly found fault with me, and that, too, almost before the servants, because I chose to go out again to-night, and angrily informed me that you would like to see me here before I left the house—­surely you did not expect to find me trilling a love-song for you in heart-broken accents!  Still, I must say that I wish you had not made it necessary for me to be so tryingly frank.”