"Pardon me," said Mr. Forster, grimly, "then you have forgotten the pages of history. I came down purposely to persuade your ladyship to do this. I am well aware that at first sight it seems contrary to all one's notions of truth and honor, but there is so much at stake. My denial, couched in strong terms, will appear tomorrow. If it were succeeded by a letter from your ladyship, written in the same strain, people would laugh and believe that it was a great mistake. I had so many inquiries this morning before I left London, and I gave the same answer to all, that it was the sorry jest of an evil-disposed person. If your ladyship would but second my efforts, all would be well; we could get him through in safety."
But Lady Carruthers had risen from her seat and stood with her proud figure drawn to its utmost height.
"I will do anything you propose, save tell a lie. If my son can be rescued by no other means, he must bear his punishment."
"Then my journey is in vain," said Mr. Forster. "I may return to London at once."
"No," said Lady Carruthers; "I cannot allow you to return after that long journey—you must stay and dine with us. Pardon me," she said, seeing that he looked hurt and uncomfortable. "I have spoken strongly, but truth has always been far dearer to me than life. I do full justice to your motives. I appreciate your kindness, but in this manner I cannot help you. Stay and take dinner with us; then we can consult as to what is best to be done."
"May I give your ladyship one piece of advice?" said the lawyer. "Have the papers—yesterday's and today's—destroyed, so that no rumor of anything amiss can reach your servants; also say nothing of it—it may possibly die away, as some rumors do. Your visitors and friends will not broach such a subject to you, I am sure."
"I shall not mention it," she replied; "although Marion will be sure to suspect something wrong." At that moment the last dressing-bell rang.
"You will join us in a few minutes," said Lady Carruthers; "never mind your traveling-dress; Miss Hautville and I are quite alone."
No one who saw Lady Carruthers leave the library with stately step and dignified air, would have believed that she had received a blow which laid her life and all her hopes in ruins—as the lightning smites the lofty oak. She went back to her sumptuous bedroom that she had left half an hour ago, so calm and serene, so unconscious of coming evil. Looking in the mirror, she saw her face was deadly pale—there was no trace of color left on it, and deep lines had come on her brow that had been so calm.
"It will not do to look so pale," said Lady Carruthers; and from one of the mysterious little drawers she took a small powder puff that soon remedied the evil.