"Burden lied," said Lady Wolfer. "I want to tell every one; it is due to this saint, this dear girl, who sacrificed herself to me. I only heard this morning from my husband that he had found a note which Sir Archie had sent me, asking me to leave England with him. He placed this note on a pedestal in my drawing-room. Both my husband and Nell saw it, not knowing that the other had seen it. It never reached me; but this dear girl kept the appointment which Sir Archie had made for the library the next morning. She wanted to save me. I know, almost as if I had been there, how she pleaded with him, how she strove for my honor. While they were there my husband came upon them. The letter was not addressed to me, and he leaned to the conclusion that it was intended for Nell. She permitted him to make the hideous mistake, and, to save me, she left the house with her reputation ruined—in his eyes, at least. Until this morning he has never breathed a word of this to a soul. I am confident that Sir Archie Walbrooke, who went away full of remorse and penitence, has also kept silent. It was reserved for a woman to strike the blow aimed at the honor and happiness of an innocent and helpless girl—a girl so noble that she is ready to lay down her life's happiness and honor rather than betray the friend she loves. Judge between these two, between us three, if you will."
It was not a moment for cheering, but sudden exclamations burst from the men, most of the women were in tears, and Nell was sobbing as she lay on her friend's bosom.
Lady Luce alone remained smiling. Her face was white, her breath came in quick, labored gasps.
"What a charming romance!" she exclaimed, with a forced sneer. "So completely satisfactory!"
At the sound of her voice, the countess' spirit rose in true Anglo-Saxon fashion. She checked her sobs, wiped her eyes with a morsel of lace she called a handkerchief, and, sweeping in a stately manner to the door, said, with the extreme of patrician hauteur:
"A carriage for Lady Lucille Turfleigh, please!"
Lady Luce shrugged her shoulders, turned, and slowly moved toward the door; and, as she went, the crowd made way for her, and left her a clear passage, as if she had suddenly become infectious.
Nell did not see her go, did not hear the mingled expressions of indignation and congratulation which buzzed round her.
All she heard was Drake's "Nell! Nell! My dearest! my own!" as he put his arms round her and drew her head to his breast.
Those persons who are fortunate enough to receive invitations to the summer and shooting parties, which Lord and Lady Angleford give at Anglemere, have very good reason to congratulate themselves; but those who are still more fortunate to receive a letter from Nell, asking them to spend a fortnight at the picturesque and "cottagy" house which Drake has built at a certain out-of-the-way spot in Devonshire called Shorne Mills, go about pluming themselves as if they had drawn one of the prizes in life's lottery. For only very intimate and dear friends are asked to Shorne Mills.