"In no other way."

"You're quite sure?"

"Quite, and I'm very sorry you asked me the question. I tried hard to prevent you."

"You've succeeded admirably," he said, laughing. "I was afraid you did care."

He held out his hand, and she took it, saying with a little constraint in her manner:

"You're certainly frank."

He was pleased to see that she was only piqued; the speech had been unfortunate; but Lady Isabelle had plenty of common sense, and she realised that his nave confession had cleared the atmosphere, and made social intercourse possible.

He made another attempt to interest her in general conversation, this time succeeding admirably. And so an hour slipped by unnoticed, until the stern voice of the Dowager recalled them to the realities of life.

"Isabelle," she said coldly, "you are surely forgetting your duty to our hostess, and to me also, it seems."

"I'm coming, mamma," she replied, and left him with a quiet "Good-night."

Stanley felt immensely relieved. That was over; Lady Isabelle and he understood each other now, and his path was clear for--was it to be matrimony after all? He told himself he was a weak fool--that Miss Fitzgerald cared nothing for him; would not take him after last night; that he was under no real obligation and that he was a sentimental idiot--yet, he must see her--for his own sake--to justify himself--to---- He resolutely shut his eyes to the future, and went in search of the lady in question.

Ten minutes later, Belle and he were alone in the most favourable place in the house for a tete-a-tete, a curious old corner, the two sides of which were converted into a capacious seat to which there was but one approach, screened by a heavy curtain on one side and a suit of armour on the other--safe from all observers.

"What a quaint old house this is!" he said. "We might almost suppose we were back in the sixteenth century."

"Yes," she replied dreamily. "We're out of place in these surroundings."

She was in a strange mood this evening, sad and thoughtful, yet lacking the repose which should have accompanied reverie. It was the only time that the Secretary had ever seen her nervous or _distraite_.

"What have you been doing all day?" he asked, hoping to lead the conversation to some more cheerful subject.

"Trying to forget myself," she replied.

"Surely it would be a pleasure to remember yourself, I should think."

"Should you? I fear not."

"Your ears must have burned this afternoon," he continued, unheeding her comment. "Pleasant things were being said about you."

"Did you say them?"

"Of course I said them, I always do; but I was referring to someone else--to Lady Isabelle."

"People only patronise me, when they think me unworthy of reproof."

"How can you say that!" he exclaimed. "I----" but she silenced him with a gesture.

"You've said it. That's why. I've never had one friend with whom there did not come a day, that he or she threw me over and cast my failings in my face. I'd believed it was different with you, I believed you trusted me; that you'd have trusted me through good and evil report--but no, you're like the rest. Society points its finger at me, and you accept its verdict, and you're right. You, secure in your social position, powerful, influential, you shall determine what is right and what is wrong, and I,--I must accept it without a murmur--I'm only a woman without a friend."

"No! no! no!" he cried vehemently. "You wrong me, you do not understand.

No one can respect a woman more than I respect you. It's of some of your friends that I disapprove."

"A man is known by the company he keeps--how much more a woman. I'm like my friends--and you--you"--and for the moment she forgot to be meek and suffering, and her eyes blazed with pa.s.sion--"you are the Pharisee of the nineteenth century, the hem of whose robe we outcasts are unworthy to touch!"

"How can you!" he cried, springing to his feet. "How can you do me so much wrong? It's not that you're like your friends. It is the fear that you may become so that moves me to speak as I do. But since you've seen fit to suspect me, you must allow me to justify myself. I know the affairs of this Colonel Darcy; know them as few others could, by virtue of my diplomatic position, and I a.s.sure you he has wronged and brutally treated one of the most beautiful and sweet-natured women I have ever seen. Treated her so badly that she was forced to flee to our Legation for a.s.sistance and protection. Imagine my feelings when you tell me that this man is your friend--when I hear your name coupled with his in the idle gossip of the smoking-room."

"I only know that Colonel Darcy was kind to me once upon a time," she replied, interrupting the flow of his eloquence.

"But what's that to do with this?"

"A man who can be kind to a woman in distress cannot be wholly bad."

"Why do you defend him?"

"Never mind why. Don't let us talk any more about it," she said wearily.

"You cannot deny that you think worse of me for defending him; you can't take back your words of last night. I've been thinking it over carefully, and I've make up my mind. I'm of no use to anyone. I make my friends ashamed of me-- I'm misunderstood and misjudged. It's the way of the world, but it's hard. My spirit's broken. I no longer have the wish to continue the battle. I'm going away."

"Going away! When?" he cried, in amazement.

"At once."

"And where?'

"I don't know; somewhere where I'm not known, where I've no friends to be annoyed at having to claim me as an acquaintance. Somewhere where people will take me for what I am, not for what I have been, for whom I know, for what I have done or left undone. Oh, I'm so tired, so sick of it all," and she bowed her head and wept.

The effect of all this on Stanley can hardly be over-stated. He supported her, he soothed her, he told her all that was in his heart, or all he thought was there. She should not go away alone; he would go with her; he had shockingly misjudged her; it should be his life task to make her forget that, to proclaim to all the world how great a heritage he had received in her love. They would triumph over all obstacles. He would show the world what a true, n.o.ble woman she really was; he would prove it in the best way possible by marrying her, if she would have him, if she would so far honour him. His heart was at her feet. She would be quite right in spurning it, but he besought her to be merciful, to give him his answer, and let that answer be consent.

And the lady, who, under these ministrations and protestations, had gradually recovered her self-control, ceased her pa.s.sionate sobbing, rested her head contentedly on his shoulder, and allowed him, with but feeble resistance, to encircle her waist with a protecting arm--in short, everything seemed prepared for her success, when the curtain was pushed aside and there stood before them the figure of a man, which caused them both to spring to their feet, in time, as they fondly hoped, to escape detection; the Secretary with a smothered exclamation of rage; the lady, as she recognised the intruder, with a startled cry of:

"Colonel Darcy!"

CHAPTER XVII

HER HUSBAND

Even an un.o.bserving man--and Colonel Robert Darcy was not that--could hardly have helped seeing that his presence was unwelcome, and that he had interrupted an important interview.

"I beg your pardon," he said, "I fear I've intruded."

The Secretary said nothing, and Miss Fitzgerald came to the rescue by declaring that she was very glad to see him, and that she had no idea he would be in Suss.e.x so soon.

"The fact is, I particularly wanted to see you," he replied bluntly.

Thereupon Mr. Stanley did that most unpardonable thing in good society--lost his temper and gave evidence of the fact; a piece of egotism often noticeable in young men during their first years of social life, before a severe course of snubbing has taught them of how little relative importance they really are.