She turned and drew her cloak round her and moved to the door. Yorke started as if roused from a kind of stupor, and went forward as if to accompany her, but she drew away from him.
"Your place is here," she said icily, "not with me!"
He stopped, irresolute, half dazed by conflicting emotions, and she looked over her shoulder at Ralph Duncombe.
"I ordered my carriage to follow me," she said in a dull, mechanical voice. "Will you see if it is on the road, Mr. Duncombe?"
He started forward and offered his arm; but Yorke motioned him aside and took her hand.
"No!" he said hoarsely. "My place is by your side. You are my promised wife, Eleanor!"
He spoke the words in the tone a man might use who is about to lead a forlorn hope which must end in death, as a man who is resigning all chance of happiness. She understood and smiled bitterly as she drew her hand from his.
"Pardon me, Lord Auchester," she said pointing bitterly to Leslie, "there stands your promised wife," and with one long look into his face she turned and left them.
Yorke was a gentleman. He could not let the woman whom he was pledged to marry in a few hours go out into the night like an outcast. He followed her and Ralph Duncombe.
"Eleanor," he said in deep agitation, "you will let me come with you?"