"Then I will kneel here until I die," she cried, passionately; "I will never leave you until you say that you pardon me!"
The duke raised his face, and when the Earl of Linleigh saw it he started back. It was as though a blight had fallen over it—it was changed, haggard, gray—twenty years older than when he had entered the room. The earl felt more remorse when he caught sight of that pale face than he had ever before known.
"Lord Linleigh," said the duke, "I want you to give me details—the details of your marriage; how and where it took place; who were the witnesses. I shall want to see the copy of the register; I shall want the certificate of the child's birth and death."
"It is not dead!" cried Lord Linleigh, in astonishment.
"Not dead!" repeated the duke. "Do you mean to tell me, my lord, I have had a grandchild living all these years, and have known nothing about it. Do you mean to tell me that a descendant of the Herefords has been born, and I have never even seen it? Great Heaven! what have I done, that I should have this to endure?"
"I was ashamed of the story of my marriage," said the earl, "but, if possible, I am still more ashamed of the history of my child. My poor wife was ill-advised when she acted as she did."
A certain nervous tremor came over the duchess. She remembered many things that the duke had forgotten, and a presentiment of the truth came over her.
"Estelle," she said, "tell us where your child was born, and who helped you to deceive us?"
Obediently enough, she told the whole story.
"We must not blame poor Lady Delapain," said the duke, kindly; "of the dead no ill should be spoken. Rely upon it, she did it for the kindest and best. Now, tell us, Estelle, what you did with this unhappy child."