"I must ask you," continued the duke, "to follow me attentively. I am anxious to do two things—I wish to preserve the unsullied honor of my house, and I wish to do justice to her whom I must, in spite of my objection, call my grandchild. I propose to do it in this way: Let the secret of this private marriage ever remain unknown and unsuspected. It was known that Captain Studleigh admired Lady Estelle before he went abroad; it will not seem strange to any one that, having succeeded to the earldom, and finding her still with us, he seeks to marry her. Visit Downsbury Castle when you will, my lord; you can speak of Lady Estelle with all the rapture of a Studleigh. It will soon be rumored about that you have renewed the old love. At the end of six weeks I will take my daughter to Paris, you can follow us. I will not ask you to go again through the religious ceremony—I have too much respect for religion to suggest it; but you can go through the civil forms, with all the pomp and splendor due to your own rank and ours. Every paper in England will then have an account of the marriage of Lady Estelle Hereford with the Earl of Linleigh, and I shall be saved the greatest disgrace—the greatest shame that could have befallen me. Do you agree to my proposal, Lord Linleigh? In making it there is nothing against your interest or my daughter's—nothing against justice, loyalty, or honor; it is simply a subterfuge to save the honor of a noble house. Do you agree?"
"I see no objection," said the earl, cautiously.
"I shall dower my daughter right royally," said the duke—"as munificently as though she were marrying the man whom I should have chosen for her."
"It would save an immense deal of scandal, and rumor, and remarks," said the duchess, gravely; "it would save us from a thousand taunts and jeers. We have been so proud of you, Estelle!"
"But the child," said the earl—"she cannot be ignored after that fashion."
"Certainly not. My plan you will find best for her as well as for you. I have told you before that I cannot and will not submit to the degradation of hearing this story laughed at by half London. This is what I propose for the child: You, my Lord Linleigh, were in your youth famed for eccentricity. Tell the world openly, as you please, that you were married before you went abroad, and lost your wife. That is perfectly true, and you will not find many questions asked. Add that, unable to burden yourself with the care of a child in India, you were compelled to leave her with friends of your wife—every word of which is literally, strictly, and perfectly true. The only secret that I charge you to guard as you would guard your life, is this—the name of your wife. You will not find people curious to know it. They will conclude that you married some poor, pretty girl, and not tease you with questions. You can claim your daughter at once, and take her home with you."
The earl looked quite content, but there was a pitiful expression on the face of Lady Estelle that was painful to see.
"I understand," she said; "but, papa, if we do this she will never know who is her mother. She will never know that she is my child."
"It is not needful," was the stern reply. "I should think that any mother would shrink from letting her child know such a history as yours. She will be with you—under your charge—you can do all a mother's part toward her, and yet save the honor of our name."
The face of Lady Estelle grew crimson as she listened.