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Beaucourt attempted to support the claim that she had advanced. His wife sternly signed to 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.

“Not even then.”

She looked toward the next room. “Go in, Howel, and bring Mrs. Evelin back; I have something to say to her.”

The discovery that she had left the house caused no fear that she had taken to flight with the purpose of concealing herself. There was a prospect before the poor lonely woman which might be trusted to preserve her from despair, to say the least of it.

During her brief residence in Beaucourt’s house she had shown to Lady Howel a letter received from a relation, who had emigrated to New Zealand with her husband and her infant children some years since. They had steadily prospered; they were living in comfort, and they wanted for nothing but a trustworthy governess to teach their children. The mother had accordingly written, asking if her relative in England could recommend a competent person, and offering a liberal salary. In showing the letter to Lady Howel, Mrs. Evelin had said: “If I had not been so happy as to attract your notice, I might have offered to be the governess myself.”

Assuming that it had now occurred to her to act on this idea, Lady Howel felt assured that she would apply for advice either to the publishers who had recommended her, or to Lord Howel’s old friend.