“But you know whom I mean?” persisted Lady Gwendolyn.
“I know nothing,” was the evasive reply. “I was not present at your interview, and had no reason to suppose there was any one in the house who would dare to make such a charge against me. As I said before, I do not pretend to be a saint, but I have never wronged or deceived a living woman.”
“I wish I could believe you,” she said, almost convinced in spite of herself, there was something so trustworthy about him. “I want a friend and protector badly enough, for my brother has deserted me.”
“What, Teignmouth!” exclaimed her companion incredulously.
“Yes; he thinks I have disgraced him, and the name I bear, and does not care for me to be associated any longer with his innocent, pure-minded wife, lest I should contaminate her.”
Lady Gwendolyn would have been less than a woman if she had not allowed her sneer to be perceptible—for she owed all her misery and humiliation to Pauline; and to know that she had managed to exalt herself in Lord Teignmouth’s eyes at the expense of his sister, did not give her a very Christianlike feeling toward the clever countess, assuredly. But, having relieved herself by this little piece of spite, Gwendolyn melted into tears again, and was so agitated she did not notice the arm that was stealing round her waist so gently.
Nor did she resist when presently, grown bold by impunity, Colonel Dacre drew her head down on to his breast and murmured:
“If you must weep, darling, you shall weep here. I hold you fast now, and will not be denied. Cannot you trust me a little?”
She shook her head drearily.
“I am afraid I could not. I should always feel as if there were some mystery between us—and that would spoil all my happiness. Besides, you do not respect me, Lawrence; you told me so frankly two years ago. What kind of marriage could ours be, distrusting each other mutually, as we should do?”