And yet men do lie, and women too, without remorse, when the stakes
are high. I will believe no one but herself in this. Let her come
down and stand before me and look me in the face and tell me that it
is so,--and I promise you that there shall be no further difficulty.
I will not even ask to be alone with her. I will speak but a dozen
words to her, and you shall hear them."

"She is not here, Mr. Thwaite. She is not living in this house."

"Where is she then?"

"She is staying with friends."

"With the Lovels,--in Yorkshire?"

"I do not think that good can be done by my telling you where she
is."

"Do you mean me to understand that she is engaged to the Earl?"

"I tell you this,--that she acknowledges herself to be bound to you,
but bound to you simply by gratitude. It seems that there was a
promise."

"Oh yes,--there was a promise, Lady Lovel; a promise as firmly spoken
as when you told the late lord that you would be his wife."

"I know that there was a promise,--though I, her mother, living
with her at the time, had no dream of such wickedness. There was a
promise, and by that she feels herself to be in some measure bound."

"She should do so,--if words can ever mean anything."

"I say she does,--but it is only by a feeling of gratitude. What;--is
it probable that she should wish to mate so much below her degree,
if she were now left to her own choice? Does it seem natural to you?
She loves the young Earl,--as why should she not? She has been thrown
into his company on purpose that she might learn to love him,--when
no one knew of this horrid promise which had been exacted from her
before she had seen any in the world from whom to choose."

"She has seen two now, him and me, and she can choose as she pleases.
Let us both agree to take her at her word, and let us both be present
when that word is spoken. If she goes to him and offers him her hand
in my presence, I would not take it then though she were a princess,
in lieu of being Lady Anna Lovel. Will he treat me as fairly? Will he
be as bold to abide by her choice?"

"You can never marry her, Mr. Thwaite."

"Why can I never marry her? Would not my ring be as binding on her
finger as his? Would not the parson's word make me and her one flesh
and one bone as irretrievably as though I were ten times an earl? I
am a man and she a woman. What law of God, or of man,--what law of
nature can prevent us from being man and wife? I say that I can marry
her,