"Stephanie, my wife," cried the duke, despairingly, "do you believe this? Do you believe the child we have loved and cherished has deceived us so cruelly?"
The duchess left her daughter's side and went over to him. She laid her hand on his.
"We must bear it together," she said. "It is the first great trial of our lives—we must make the best of it."
"To be deceived—to smile on us, to kiss us, to sit by us, to share the same roof, to kneel at the same altar, and yet to keep such a secret from us! Why, Stephanie, it cannot be true."
The duchess was not one of the demonstrative kind, but she was so deeply touched by the pain in his voice, that she clasped her arms round his neck.
"I can only say one thing to comfort you, my husband. We have spent the greater part of our lives together, and in no single thing have I deceived you yet. Let the remembrance of your wife's loyalty soften the thought of your daughter's treachery."
The next moment the daughter whom he had loved as the very pride and joy of his life, was kneeling and sobbing at his feet.
"It was not treachery, papa; do not give it so bad a name. I was very young, and I loved him very much; except you and mamma, I loved no one else. Ah! papa, do not turn from me; I have suffered so terribly—I have never been happy for one moment since. I loved you so dearly I never could bear to look at your face and remember how I had deceived you. I have been so unhappy, so wretched, so miserable, I cannot tell you. Pity me—do not be angry with me. I loved you both, and my heart was torn in two. Kiss me, dear, and forgive me."
But he turned away from the pitiful, pleading voice and beseeching face.
"I cannot forgive you, Estelle," he said; "the pain is too great."