him to be silent. "What do you mean?" she said,
addressing the question to Mrs. Evelin.

"I mean this. The person whom you speak of as a nobleman was presented
to me as 'Mr. Vincent, an artist.' But for that deception I should never
have set foot in your ladyship's house."

"Is this true, my lord?" Lady Howel asked, with a contemptuous emphasis
on the title of nobility.

"Quite true," her husband answered. "I thought it possible that my rank
might prove an obstacle in the way of my hopes. The blame rests on me,
and on me alone. I ask Mrs. Evelin to pardon me for an act of deception
which I deeply regret."

Lady Howel was a just woman. Under other circumstances she might
have shown herself to be a generous woman. That brighter side of her
character was incapable of revealing itself in the presence of Mrs.
Evelin, young and beautiful, and in possession of her husband's heart.
She could say, "I beg your pardon, madam; I have not treated you
justly." But no self-control was strong enough to restrain the next
bitter words from passing her lips. "At my age," she said, "Lord Howel
will soon be free; you will not have long to wait for him."

The young widow looked at her sadly--answered her sadly.

"Oh, my lady, your better nature will surely regret having said that!"

For a moment her eyes rested on Beaucourt, dim with rising tears. She
left the room--and left the house.

There was silence between the husband and wife. Beaucourt was the first
to speak again.

"After what you have just heard, do you persist in your jealousy of that
lady, and your jealousy of me?" he asked.

"I have behaved cruelly to her and to you. I am ashamed of myself," was
all she said in reply. That expression of sorrow, so simple and so true,
did not appeal in vain to the gentler side of Beaucourt's nature. He
kissed his wife's hand; he tried to console her.

"You may forgive me," she answered. "I cannot forgive myself. That poor
lady's last words have made my heart ache. What I said to her in anger
I ought to have said generously. Why should she not wait for you? After
your life with me--a life of kindness, a life of self-sacrifice--you
deserve your reward. Promise me that you will marry the woman you
love--after my death has released you."

"You distress me, and needlessly distress me," he said. "What you are
thinking of, my dear, can never happen; no, not even if--" He left the
rest unsaid.

"Not even if you were free?" she asked.