“Yes, that will tell you where she is, and why she has gone, no doubt,” said Lady Grace; and with an affectation of delicate consideration she turned to the great oriel window, that he might read it undisturbed.
Suddenly he uttered a cry, and, looking round, she saw him leaning against the balustrade staring at the letter, which shook like an aspen leaf in his hands.
“Oh, what is it?” she breathed, and her face went almost as white as his own.
He looked up with a bewildered stare; then, with a working face, seemed to struggle for composure.
“You—I—we were both wrong!” he said, hoarsely; “she—she has gone!”
“Oh, no, no!” murmured Lady Grace; “don’t say that! Do not believe it! Oh, Lord Cecil!” and she laid both her hands upon his arms and looked up at him beseechingly, sympathizingly, as a sister might strive to soothe and encourage a brother.
“Yes,” he said, almost inaudibly, and with a catch in his voice, “it is true—it is true! Great Heaven! and I loved—I trusted—I——” He turned his head aside for a second, then faced her, every muscle of his face quivering under the effort to appear unmoved. “Lady Grace, the letter proves the marquis’ estimate of women to be a true one, and mine—Heaven help me!—false! Read it. No, I cannot! It is the only letter she ever wrote me—it is sacred! The first and the last! Great Heaven, to think that she, she!——” and as he recalled the pure and innocent face, the truthful, trustful eyes that had looked up so devotedly, so passionately, with such an infinity of love into his, his voice broke and he could not utter another word.
“No, do not show me the letter!” she said. “It should be sacred to you. And I do not believe it yet. Where were you going, Cecil?”
Her omission of his formal title escaped him at the moment.
“To London,” he said. “But where”—and he made a despairing gesture—“it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters now!” and he forced a rueful smile.