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.