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Updated: June 26, 2025
The old days at Rome, with the favourite sister who was dead and gone; her own gay, careless life, with its worldly aims and desires; her first arrival at Sutton, her determination to make herself Sir John Kynaston's wife, and then her fatal love for his brother; it all came back to her again. All kinds of little details that she had long forgotten came flooding in upon her memory.
How do you know that?" Mr. Benjamin interrupted quickly. She told him of Mr. Brown's admission to her, and of the tragedy of Rachel Kynaston's last words. He seemed to know something of this too. "Any other reason?" "He seemed agitated when he came out from the cottage, after the crime was discovered. From its situation he could easily have committed the murder and regained it unseen.
Romer is now living?" The woman grinned. "She has been living at Walpole Lodge, at Kew Lady Kynaston's, sir." "Oh, thank you;" and he was preparing to re-enter his hansom. "But I don't think you will see her to-day, sir." "Why not?" turning half-round again. "It is Mrs. Romer's wedding-day." "What?" That elderly female, who had been at one time a housemaid in Mr.
Romer who was now a widow, who lived with her rich grandfather, who was very old, who would probably soon die and leave her all his wealth, was evidently the same Mrs. Romer whom he had known. The friend who gave him the information spoke of her as lovely and spirituelle, and as a woman who would be worth marrying some day. "She is often at Lady Kynaston's receptions," he had added.
Insensibly, she resumed a lighter manner. On that other subject there was nothing left to be said. She had had her last chance of becoming John Kynaston's wife. After what she had said to him, she knew he would never ask her again. That chapter in her life was closed for ever. They parted, unromantically enough, in front of St. George's Hospital.
There was a cruel irony of fate in the fact that she should be destined to meet him again at Lady Kynaston's, the very house of all others where she would least have wished to see him. There was, however, had she thought of it, nothing at all extraordinary in her having done so.
No house in all London society was so open to foreigners as Walpole Lodge, and Monsieur Le Vicomte D'Arblet was no unknown upstart; he bore a good old name; he was clever, had taken an active part in diplomatic life, and was a very well-known individual in Parisian society. He had been brought to Lady Kynaston's by a member of the French Embassy, who was a frequenter of her soirées.
The clouds racked wildly across the sky; the trees bent and swayed before the howling wind; the rain beat in floods upon the ground; yet greater and fiercer still was the tempest that raged in Helen Kynaston's heart.
Therefore she determined upon so carving out her own fortunes that she should not make a failure of herself. It was worldly wisdom of the purest and simplest character. She was as much determined as ever upon winning Kynaston's owner if he was to be won. Only she wished, with a little sigh, that he had happened to be the man in the photograph.
"How am I to live out my life?" she asked herself, in her anguish. It had not entered into her head that she could alter it. It did not occur to her to imagine that she could give up anything to which she now stood pledged. To be John Kynaston's wife, and to love his brother, that was what struck upon her with horror; no other possible contingency had as yet suggested itself to her.
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