Kent-Lauriston fully realised that the strong hold which he possessed over the Secretary rested, more than anything else, on the fact that his opinions were entirely reliable; and it was most important that Stanley's confidence in his friend's dicta should remain unimpaired, if that friend hoped to be able to guide him. Therefore, much as the Englishman would have liked to voice his suspicions for the Secretary's benefit, he determined to keep silence till he had full verification of his conjectures, and for this purpose he sought out Madame Darcy.

He found her at home, and she welcomed him courteously.

"Will you think me very presuming," he said, "to have called on you in the interests of a mutual friend of ours, Mr. Stanley?"

"Any friend of Mr. Stanley's can claim and receive friendship of me," she replied, a beautiful light coming over her expressive face, "for he has done me kindnesses that I can never forget or repay."

"It is in virtue of that, that I've ventured to intrude myself upon you this afternoon. You have, like myself, a great interest in his welfare, I'm sure, and I am come to make common cause with you for his good."

"You could have come to no one more willing – but will you do me the honour to accept a seat in the garden, where we can chat more at leisure."

"I shall be charmed," he said, and she led the way to a rustic bench, under the spreading branches of a gnarled, old apple-tree.

"Our friend makes no secrets of his own affairs from me, you must understand," Kent-Lauriston began, after assuring himself that they were alone, "and I imagine, from what he's said, that he's given you some inkling of his heart troubles."

"Yes," she said, "he hinted to me in London that he had some affair under consideration; but I do not think he felt deeply – as he should have felt. I trust it's not turned out seriously."

"Not as yet, I'm glad to say – but he's in some danger; and, believe me, you could not be doing him a greater service, than in helping to ward off this peril, which would be the ruin of his life."

"Indeed, yes, – but what means have I?"

"I believe you have it in your power to prove that the woman who has bewitched him, is unworthy of his love. Let him realise this and he is saved."

"But, surely, you're not alluding to the lady who formed our topic of conversation this morning?"

"I fear I am."

"But Mr. Stanley assured me that she was nothing to him."

"You were talking at cross purposes, and unintentionally deceiving each other."

"How so?"

"Why, there are two versions of the story of that marriage. The version Mr. Stanley had been told runs to this effect: – that Lieutenant Kingsland married Lady Isabelle McLane."

"But the register – "

"Says she didn't. I know, I've seen it; but our young friend has not, or had not when he last saw you."

"Then he thought I was referring to Lady Isabelle?"

"Exactly. No names were mentioned, he told me."

"True – but this is most unfortunate! Do you see my position?"

"Believe me, I'm fully informed on the matter, so that I'll not put you to the pain of relating it."

She bowed her silent thanks, and then continued: —

"The fact of this lady's marriage ties my hands. Deeply as she has wronged me, have I any right to ruin her husband's life by her exposure? If she has reformed – "

"My dear Madame Darcy, pray disabuse your mind of two misconceptions: the lady in question, Miss Fitzgerald, has not reformed, and I doubt if the marriage is legal. There's some trick about it."

"What you've told me leaves me free to act where my own honour is concerned; but I naturally feel a delicacy about interfering in Mr. Stanley's private affairs."

"Believe me, I fully appreciate your hesitation; but that there may be no misunderstanding between us regarding this important matter, let me tell you something of my friend's present position. I ask you to accept my word for it, that he's not as yet bound himself to Miss Fitzgerald; but his high sense of honour may lead him to do so, if he knows nothing definite against her."

"I see, and you want me to show him these letters?" and she took a little packet from her bosom.

"No, I wouldn't subject you to such a trying ordeal. I ask you to let me show the letters to him. Remember that you've told him that you have them."

"Yes," she said, after a moment's hesitation. "I think you're right. You assure me that he does not love her, and that there's positive danger that he may marry her from a sense of duty."

"I assure you that such is the case."

"Then take them," she said, giving him the letters; "but promise me that no one besides yourselves shall see them, and that they shall be safely returned to me by to-morrow."

"I promise," he replied, "and take my assurance that in doing this you've more than repaid him for any services he may have done you."

"You cannot persuade me to believe that; but I'm thankful to help where I'm able, though it be only a little, and I am even more thankful that he has such a strong champion in you."

Kent-Lauriston took her extended hand.

"Thank you," he said heartily. "Stanley's a good fellow; too good and too unsophisticated for the people he's thrown with, and I'm going to save him from himself if I can, both now and in the future."

She looked up at him with a wistful light in her eyes, saying:

"Perhaps you'll be wishing to save him from me – who've already one husband too many."

"I don't know," replied Kent-Lauriston, with an English bluntness, of which he was not often culpable.

She laughed merrily, answering:

"I hope you'll do so, if ever I give you cause."

"Madame," he returned, "what can I do? You've disarmed me, even before the first skirmish."

The feelings of Stanley on looking at the marriage register were difficult to describe. In the first shock of the discovery his brain whirled. The mystery had become a maze, and he felt the imperative need of a solution of the subject to steady his mind. Accordingly, he had that evening a fixed purpose in view, which dominated all matters of the moment; and though at dinner he talked about something, he knew not what, during the greater part of the meal his eyes and thoughts were almost continually on the amiable blundering, little old pastor, whom he had marked out as his prey. When the ladies left the table, and the men adjourned to the smoking-room, he never lost sight of him; but the dominie, as if warned by some instinct, contrived to slip out of the Secretary's grasp, to elude him in corners, and, smiling, vanquish him in every attempt at an interview. At last, however, the opportunity came – a move was made to the drawing-room. In a fatal moment, the parson lingered for one last whiff of his half-smoked and regretfully relinquished cigar, and the Secretary saw, with a sigh of relief, the last coat-tail vanish through the door, which he softly closed.

The click of the latch brought the Reverend Reginald back to the present with an uncomfortable start.

"Oh," he cried, tumbling out of his chair, "I didn't see the others had got away so quickly. Very kind of you to wait for me, I'm sure – very – we must lose no time in joining the ladies, must we, eh?"

"Only a little, a very little time, Mr. Lambert," replied the Secretary, leaning squarely against the closed door, which formed the sole exit from the room. "Just long enough to ask you one question."

"Really, I'm sure," said the little man, becoming flustered. "Another time perhaps – I should have the greatest pleasure – "

"You have, I know, performed the marriage ceremony in the last few days," began Stanley calmly.

"To be sure – yes, certainly – but this – permit me to suggest, is hardly the place to discuss my parochial duties."

"Of course anyone married from this house would have to be married by you."

"I'm in charge of this living, Mr. Stanley, there is no one else."

"I know that, and also that your nearest colleague – excuse me if I use a professional term – is some distance off."

"Fifteen miles. And now that I've answered all of your questions, let us waste no more time before joining the ladies."

"Excuse me, Mr. Lambert, but I've not as yet asked you a question. I've made a number of statements, and you've furnished me with a good deal of gratuitous information, for which I'm deeply obliged. We now come to the pith of the whole matter, which is simply this. Did you, or did you not, marry Lady Isabelle McLane to Lieutenant Kingsland?"

"What! The lady to whom you're engaged?"

"Could I be engaged to a married woman, Mr. Lambert?"

"My dear sir, you may take my word for it, I did not. I shouldn't think of such a thing. Let me assure you on the honour of my sacred office, that Lady Isabelle is not, and cannot be married to Lieutenant Kingsland."

"Ah, then Kingsland is married."

The parson caught his breath in his relief at the escape from the dreaded question, which he had supposed was inevitable. He had been too confidential.

"I did not say so, sir," he replied with dignity.

"Quite true, Mr. Lambert, you did not say so," persisted his tormentor, opening the door, "and so I suppose you'd prefer not to have me ask if you married Miss Fitzgerald to Lieutenant Kingsland?"

"I would certainly prefer not to answer that question, and now I must really go upstairs;" and without waiting for further parley, the little man scuttled out of the room.

Stanley was preparing to follow him at his leisure, when the door opened, and Kent-Lauriston entered.

"Kent-Lauriston!" he exclaimed. "You're the very man I want! I must speak with you!"

"I know it," replied his friend, "but not before I've had my smoke."

"But this matter admits of no delay."

"Oh yes, it does. That's one of the fallacies of modern civilisation. Every important question admits of delay, and most matters are all the better for it."

"But I've seen the register!"

"Of course you have, but you haven't seen a deduction that is as plain as the nose on your face, or you wouldn't now be trying to ruin my digestion. I'll meet you here at ten o'clock this evening and then, and not an instant sooner, will I discuss your private affairs."

"You English are so irritatingly slow!"

"My dear fellow, we've made our history – you're making yours. You can't afford to miss a few days; we can easily spare a few centuries. Now be a good boy, and leave me to peace and tobacco. Join the ladies, and pay a little attention to one of your fiancées."

So it was that Stanley found himself relegated to the drawing-room, and feeling decidedly upset, he good-naturedly determined to see what he could do towards upsetting the equanimity of the rest of the party. In this, however, he was partially forestalled by the good parson, who had not been wasting the few minutes of grace, which the Secretary's conversation with Kent-Lauriston had allotted to him.

No sooner had Mr. Lambert entered the drawing-room, than he sought out Miss Fitzgerald, and confided to her an astonishing discovery he had made in the church register.

"Most careless of me, I assure you," he apologised. "I should have noticed of course – people often make nervous mistakes at times like those; but it was not till this morning that I discovered that Lady Isabelle had written her name in the space reserved for the bride, and you in the space reserved for the witness."

"Well?" asked Miss Fitzgerald, her voice ringing hard and cold as steel.

"Oh, it's all right, my dear," the old man quavered on. "Quite all right, I corrected it myself. I can do a neat bit of work still, even if my hands do tremble a little. I cut out the names, reversed them, and put them back in their proper places, and I'd defy any but an expert to see that they'd been tampered with. I'm sure that none of the people who've seen the book since suspected the change."

"Who has seen the book?" she asked, frozen with horror.

"After I corrected the register?"

"Yes! Yes! Who?"

"Dear me – let me see! That was this morning. Now who was there? Ah! – I remember. A strange lady in black, very beautiful, and Mr. Kent-Lauriston."

Miss Fitzgerald shuddered.

"Dear, dear!" cried the parson. "You're cold – the draught from the window – let me get you a wrap."

"No, no, I'm quite warm, thank you. You're sure that no one else saw the register?"

"No one – except Mr. Stanley."

"You must excuse me, Mr. Lambert," she said. "I'm not feeling very well."

"You are faint? Is there nothing I can do for you?"

"Nothing more, thank you," and she swept past him across the room, to where Lady Isabelle was seated on a sofa.

"Nothing more," murmured the little man, after she had left him; "but I hadn't begun to do anything; and she seemed quite faint. Dear, dear, she looks strong, but to be so easily upset, I fear something must be wrong – my daughter was never like that," and, shaking his head, he went to join the Dowager, who had a penchant for the clergy.

"You've heard nothing from your husband?" asked Miss Fitzgerald of Lady Isabelle, as she seated herself beside her.

"Nothing beyond a telegram telling me of his safe arrival in London."

"But surely his uncle was in extremis. He cannot live long."

"I do not know," she replied, "but it's very awkward. Oh, why won't you let me tell Mr. Stanley the truth?"

"Sh! He's coming," murmured Miss Fitzgerald, and, indeed, the Secretary was advancing deliberately towards them; a thing suggestive in itself, considering how he had striven to avoid them all day long.

"Miss Fitzgerald," he said very quietly, as he stood before them, "will you permit me to ask you a question?"

"If it's a proper question to ask, Mr. Stanley."

"It is eminently proper and fitting," he replied, coldly.

"Would you rather that I went?" suggested Lady Isabelle, half rising.

"I would rather you stayed."

"Don't be so dreadfully mysterious, Jimsy!" cried Miss Fitzgerald, with a forced laugh that grated on the ears of both her hearers. "Out with your dreadful question. What is it?"

"It is this," he replied. "Are you Jack Kingsland's wife?"

For a moment there was absolute silence. The Secretary stood looking straight in the face of the Irish girl, without moving a muscle. Lady Isabelle gave a smothered exclamation, and gripped her companion's wrist with all her force, flushing red as she did so. Miss Fitzgerald bit her lip, and stared hard at Stanley for the fraction of a minute; then, breaking into her hard metallic laugh, she cried:

"Why, you foolish boy! What can you be thinking of?"

"You've not answered my question," he replied.

"Why, what is there to answer?"

"I ask you – Are you Lieutenant Kingsland's wife?" he repeated harshly – betraying the first sign of temper he had so far evinced, which Miss Fitzgerald saw and was quick to profit by. Whatever was coming – there was, in Lady Isabelle's presence, but one course open to her – she looked her accuser boldly in the face and said:

"No, I'm not Lieutenant Kingsland's wife."

"You are quite sure of what you are saying?"

"I repeat, I am not his wife. I have not married him, put it how you please. Do you doubt my word? If you're so anxious to know whom Lieutenant Kingsland married, ask your fiancée, Lady Isabelle; perhaps she can tell you."

"It's not necessary to ask Lady Isabelle if she is Lieutenant Kingsland's wife – because – "

"Because she has already told you so," broke in Miss Fitzgerald.

"Because," continued Stanley, in the same colourless, dogged tone, "because Mr. Lambert, the one person who could have made Kingsland and Lady Isabelle man and wife, has solemnly assured me that he did not perform the marriage ceremony between them – " and he turned on his heel and left the room.

CHAPTER XXIX
IN WHICH DEATH IS A RELIEF

After Stanley had left them, Isabelle Kingsland and Isabelle Fitzgerald sat silent for a while, looking into each other's faces, the brain of each throbbing with a tumult of agitating thoughts. The Englishwoman voicing to herself a subtle suggestion of coming evil, which had been omnipresent since her marriage day, an instinctive presentiment that all was not well: the Irish girl feeling strongly irritated at this last of the many annoying contretemps of the week; and smarting under a sense of injustice that, when she had merely practised a little harmless deception for a friend's sake, that friend should leave the field and the eminently disagreeable explanations to her.

She vented her feelings by a shrug of the shoulders, which broke the tension of the silence.

"Tell me – on your honour, tell me," cried Lady Isabelle, "that he did not speak the truth; that I am married to Lieutenant Kingsland!"

"Of course you're married to Lieutenant Kingsland," replied Miss Fitzgerald, with a little sigh of resignation. "You read your licence, didn't you?"

"Yes. But – "

"But that's quite sufficient – and there's no occasion for a scene."

"It's not sufficient, not nearly sufficient – there's something that's being kept back from me, and I want to know the truth!" and Lady Isabelle rose, becoming quite queenly in her indignant agitation.

"I've been uneasy from the first about my marriage," she continued, "because it was not open as I should have wished. I knew there was some mystery about it. My husband admitted as much to me from the first, and he did not need to tell me that you were the prime mover in the affair. It is my right to know the truth."

"The assertion of people's rights is responsible for most of the wrong done in the world. Did your husband counsel you to insult his best friend?"

"He didn't wish me to speak to you on the subject, but I've determined to take matters into my own hands. In the face of Mr. Stanley's charges, I must know the truth."

"You had better obey your husband."

"I'm responsible to him for that matter, not to you, Miss Fitzgerald. Now tell me, what did Mr. Stanley mean?"

"He meant what he said."

"But how could Mr. Lambert have told him an untruth?"

"Mr. Lambert told him what he believed to be the truth; and that was, that he had not married you and Jack – Lieutenant Kingsland, I mean."

"Was that all he told him?"

"I should think it highly probable that he added that he had married your husband to me."

"My husband to you!"

"I told you we'd better let this matter alone."

In a second Lady Isabelle's hands were on Miss Fitzgerald's shoulders, and her eyes blazed into the eyes of the Irish girl.

"The truth, woman, the truth! Is he my husband?"

"Yes."

"Then why does Mr. Lambert – ?"

"Because he believes that I was the bride."

"Did you tell him so?"

"No, but when I went to make the arrangements he blundered into the mistake – and – well, I didn't take the trouble to correct him."

"You dared!"

"Yes," she replied. "I'd do a good deal for Jack – we used to care for each other once."

Her Ladyship's eyes flashed dangerously, and Miss Fitzgerald hastened to add:

"Of course that was all over long ago – I know Jack too well."

"How dared you do it?" asked her accuser again.

"It was risky, but our names were the same, and he's half blind and somewhat deaf, and in his dotage. The chances of escaping detection were good, as the event has proved."

"How dared you do it?"

"Of course it wasn't my affair whether Jack told you or not. It was legal and that's the main thing."

"How dared you do it?"

"You needn't be so nasty about it; it was merely to be obliging. If you think it amusing to be a dummy bride – "

"Be silent!"

The two women stood facing each other, breathing hard, as though resting from physical combat; the face of one expressing infinite contempt, of the other infinite anger. At this juncture a servant brought a telegram to Lady Isabelle.

Thankful for the relief from an awkward pause, she tore it open, and her face lit up as she read its message.

"Still in London. Uncle died this morning, leaving me his heir. As preliminaries take some time to arrange, am returning to you to-morrow.

"Jack."

"There!" she said, showing it to her antagonist. "I suppose it's wicked to rejoice in any one's death; but it's a great relief, for it gives me back my husband – and he shall defend me from you!"

"I don't think your husband will be down on me."

"He'll proclaim the truth about our marriage. It should never have been concealed, least of all by dishonourable means."

"You forget yourself, Lady Isabelle."

"I remember what is due my position, and so will Mr. Lambert, when he hears how grossly you've deceived him."

"You mustn't tell him."

"It will not be necessary. I've only to ask him to look at the marriage register. That will bear witness to the truth, I know; for I signed in the proper place for the bride."

Miss Fitzgerald drew a quick, sharp breath. She had trusted to be spared this last confession.

"The register has been changed," she said.

"Who has done this?"

"Mr. Lambert, supposing there had been a mistake."

"Then Mr. Lambert will change it back again, to-morrow morning!"

"You mustn't speak to him of this."

"I'll speak to him to-night."

"No."

"You've no right to interfere. You've no right to do anything, but apologise to me for the great wrong you've done me!"

"I forbid you to apprise Mr. Lambert of the true state of affairs till your husband returns to-morrow!"

"I've told you I shall see him to-night."

"I forbid you, in your husband's interests."

"You are insolent."

"I'm in a position to be anything I choose."

"Why?"

"Because I have your husband in my power."

"I do not believe it!"

"If I choose to make public," she said, laughing insolently, "the manner in which your husband is spending his time in London, I could have him cashiered from the navy."

Lady Isabelle drew herself up, and gave her adversary a look of unutterable scorn and contempt, saying: —

"You will probably circulate any falsehood about my husband that you please; it will simply prove to others, as it proves to me, that you still do love him, and that when he knew your true character he left you," and turning from her astonished and indignant rival, she quietly crossed the length of the drawing-room, to where the Dowager and the parson were seated.

"Mother," she said, "would you think me very rude if I asked for Mr. Lambert's company for a few moments? I want to have a serious talk with him."

"Not at all, my dear. Just take my place. I promised to show Mrs. Roberts a new embroidery stitch," replied the Dowager, acquiescing joyfully in the proposal.

Satisfactory on the whole as her child's training had been, on the point of her religious convictions, the Marchioness had occasionally felt some disturbing suspicions. I do not mean that Lady Isabelle was not firmly grounded in her belief of the thirty-nine articles; indeed, she was, if anything, a trifle too orthodox for her day and generation; but the Dowager knew to her cost that missions were a tabooed subject. Her daughter had even refused to slum with the Viscountess Thistledown, and worse than all, charity bazaars, though patronised by Royalty, were her pet aversions. To the Marchioness, who no longer "sold well," and whose ambition was to see Lady Isabelle tethered in the next stall to a Princess, such heresies were naturally repugnant. Mr. Lambert was very strong on all these points, and had just been suggesting to her a scheme of his own, to raise money for a worthy object, conceived on principles that would have put the authorities of Monte Carlo to the blush. So she patted her daughter's hand, established her in her own place, and murmuring that she was glad Isabelle felt the need of advice, and that she might safely rely on "dear Mr. Lambert's wisdom and – er – commonsense," betook herself to Kensington stitch and a remote corner.

But her daughter's confidences admitted of no publicity.

"Suppose we go to the conservatory, Mr. Lambert," she suggested, "we're quite sure of finding it unoccupied at this hour, and I've a confession to make."

"Certainly, my dear, certainly," he replied, following her in the direction she suggested. "Though I'm sure," he added, "that Lady Isabelle would have done nothing which she would not be willing that anybody should know, if need were."

"I hope not," she answered, and a moment later they were alone.

"Come now," he said, "what is this terrible confession; not so great a sin, I'm sure, that we cannot easily find a way for pardon or reformation."

"There's no sin to discuss," she replied, "at least, none that I've committed, unless unconscious participation is a crime. I want to speak to you about my marriage."

"Ah, yes; with Mr. Stanley – a most desirable arrangement, I've been given to understand."

"No – not with Mr. Stanley – I'm speaking of my marriage with Lieutenant Kingsland."

"But, my dear young lady, that's impossible. Lieutenant Kingsland is already married."

"Yes, he's married to me."

"To you? What? How can he be?"

"Because you married him to me two days ago.

"Nothing of the sort," cried the old man in irritated bewilderment. "I married him to Miss Fitzgerald."

"You married him to me, Mr. Lambert."

"But I ought to know best whom I married, and to whom, Lady Isabelle."

"You ought certainly; but, in this case, it seems you do not."

"But Miss Fitzgerald said – "

"Ah, that's just the point. What did Miss Fitzgerald say?"

"Really, I can't remember the conversation, word for word; she came to make the arrangements, and I inferred – "

"Did she say that she was going to marry Lieutenant Kingsland?"

"She certainly gave me the impression that such was the case."

"But did she actually say so?"

The old man was lost in thought for a moment, striving to recall some direct admission, but at length shook his head sadly, saying: —

"No. I can't remember that she did, in so many words; but she led me to suppose – "

"You've inferred; you've been given the impression; you've been led to suppose, Mr. Lambert, what did not exist. I have, however, held in my hand and carefully examined the special licence under which you performed the ceremony, and which was drawn for a marriage between Lieutenant Kingsland and myself. I was the bride whom you married; it was I who repeated the vows which you gave me; my name is Isabelle, also, remember, and it was I who signed that name as 'bride' in your register, where it should be now, if you had not changed it."

"Bless my soul! This is most bewildering! You say I married you to Lieutenant Kingsland?"

"Yes, Mr. Lambert, you did, and Miss Fitzgerald and Colonel Darcy were the witnesses."

"But this is a serious matter, a very serious matter, Lady Isabelle. This wedding seems to have been performed under false pretences."

"I imagine you would not find it difficult to prove that, Mr. Lambert; but before we discuss the matter farther, I want first to right myself in your eyes, to assure you earnestly and honestly that I was no party to this deception, that I did not know till this evening, till just now indeed, that you were not perfectly cognisant of all the facts. I was informed at the time that all arrangements had been made with you, and I believed of course that you knew everything. I was also told that I must be heavily veiled as, owing to the proximity of the early service, I might otherwise be seen; the signing in the vestry was hurried over as you know, and it was only when, in response to a statement of Mr. Stanley's, I made inquiries, that I discovered the truth. You believe me, do you not, Mr. Lambert?"

"Of course, my dear. I must believe you since you give me your word for it."

"Then set my mind at rest. Tell me this marriage was not illegal."

"I think you may be easy on that score. The licence and the signatures were regular; all the requirements were complied with; and the principals, or you at least, acted in good faith; but the affair is most unfortunate."

"You will be glad to learn that any objection which my mother might have had to my husband has now been removed."

"I do not know what Lady Port Arthur will think of my part in this deplorable matter, certainly very little consideration or courtesy has been shown me," said the poor old man, to whom the Dowager's wrath was a very terrible thing.

"Have no apprehensions, Mr. Lambert, my mother shall know the truth of this matter, and where the blame rests."

"Then you really think that Miss Fitzgerald – ?"

"I'm sure of it, Mr. Lambert. She has confessed to me, that if she did not actually say to you that she was going to marry Lieutenant Kingsland, she purposely allowed you to believe the same; and then assured my husband, whom I believe to be as innocent in the matter as I am, that your consent had been gained, and all arrangements made."

The old parson sat down on a rustic seat beside an elaborately natural, sheet-iron water-fall, seemingly quite crushed by the blow. But the spirit of the church militant was strong within him, and he was filled with righteous anger at his unmerited treatment; so taking his companion's hand, he rose presently, saying: —

"Come. Let us go to your mother and tell her the truth; we owe it to her and to ourselves."

"To-morrow, Mr. Lambert – pray wait till to-morrow."

The preacher's face hardened; he was in no mood for leniency.

"We have delayed too long already," he said, and took a step forward.

"Believe me," she replied, laying her hand on his arm, "I do not ask it from weakness, but my husband returns to-morrow, and thanks to an inheritance from an uncle who died to-day, comes back a rich man, able to support a wife. When my mother knows this, she will receive our news very differently. See," and she handed him the telegram.

"I will wait till your husband returns to speak to your mother," he replied, "but as for that unhappy girl – if it is not too late to turn her steps to the right path – I will spare no pains to bring her to a realisation of what she has done. For this, no time is like the present – no time too soon."

"I hope you may succeed," said Lady Isabelle, "but I fear you'll find her much worse than you imagine. However, I do not wish to discourage you."

"I'm not easy to discourage in any good work, I trust, Lady Isabelle Kingsland."

She started, as her new name was pronounced, and laying a detaining hand upon him, as he would have left her, said, her voice breaking: —