"I come now to a part of my story," resumed Lady Estelle, "that I would fain pass over in silence; but as it touches the matter that brought me here, I am obliged to tell you."
The proud, fair woman buried her face in her hands as she spoke, and Earle understood how terrible was the struggle between her need of help and her pride. When she raised her face again, it was ghastly white.
"Captain Studleigh had been gone four months," she gasped, "when I knew that the most terrible of all my trials had come to me—that I should be the mother of a child. For a long time—for days and weeks—I was in the most terrible despair. I often wonder," she said, musingly, "how it was that the agony of my shame did not kill me—I cannot understand it even now. I did think in those days of killing myself, but I was not brave enough—I lacked the courage. Yet I do not think any one in the wide world ever suffered so greatly. There was I—sole daughter of that ancient house; flattered, beloved, courted, feted, the envy of all who knew me—with a secret bitter as death, black as sin. At last, when I found myself obliged to seek assistance, I went to Lady Agnes Delapain, and told her all.
"Her amazement and dread of the consequences were at first appalling to me. After the first expressions of surprise and regret, she said:
"'So you were married to him—married to him all the time? I never suspected it.'
"She was very kind to me—kinder, a thousand times, than I deserved. She did not reproach me; but when she had recovered, she said:
"'Estelle, I feel that it is more than half my fault—I should never have allowed you to meet him here. I should not have dared if I had foreseen the end. I felt sorry, because you seemed to like each other; but I have done wrong.'
"I laid my head on her shoulder.
"'What am I to do?' I moaned.
"'I see no help for it now, Estelle; however averse you may be, you must tell the duchess.'