Wondering what they could be discussing she opened the door and saw a rather unusual tableau. Lady Vaughan was still in her comfortable arm-chair; she held a newspaper in her hands, and Sir Arthur and Adrian Darcy were bending over her, evidently deeply interested. Hyacinth's entrance seemed to put an end to their discussion. Adrian went up to her. Sir Arthur took the paper from his lady's hand and began to read it for himself.
"You will not refuse to sing for me to-night, Cynthy?" said Adrian. "It is, you know, as Lady Vaughan says, our betrothal night. Will you give me that pleasure?"
Still wondering at what she had heard, Hyacinth complied with his request. She played well, and she had a magnificent, well-trained voice. She sung now some simple ballad, telling of love that was never to die, of faith that was never to change, of happiness that was to last forever and ever; and as she sung the divine light of love played on her face and deep warm gratitude rose in her heart. He thanked her—he kissed the white hands that had touched the keys so deftly; and, then she heard Sir Arthur say again:
"He cannot be guilty; it is utterly impossible. I cannot say I liked the young fellow; he seemed to me one of the careless, reckless kind. But rely upon it he is too much of a gentleman to be capable of such a brutal, barbarous deed."
"If he is innocent," observed Lady Vaughan, "he will be released. In our days justice is too sure and too careful to destroy an innocent man."
"Colonel Lennox will never get over it. Such a blow will kill a proud man like him."
"I pity his mother most," said Lady Vaughan.
Every word of this conversation had been heard by Hyacinth and Adrian. She was looking over some music, and he stood by her. A strange, vague, numb sensation was gradually creeping over her. She raised her eyes to her lover's face, and they asked, as plainly as eyes could speak:
"What are they discussing?"
"A strange, sad story," he spoke in answer to the look, for she had uttered no word. Lady Vaughan heard him.