I had known Lady Dennisford for a good many years in a neighborly sort of way; but the woman who stood before me in the small sitting-room to which I had led her was a stranger to me. She had raised her veil; she was as pale as a woman may be, and her mouth, usually so firm and uncompromising, was now relaxed and tremulous. Before she spoke, I knew that tragedy was in the room with me. She tried to speak twice before the words came.
"Mr. Courage," she said, "may I speak to you as a friend?"
"Most certainly you can, Lady Dennisford," I answered.
I said and I meant it, for I was exceedingly sorry for her.
"Once I was to have married him," she said, "and I have cared for no one else all my life. There was a great scandal—a political scandal—and it was he upon whom the burden fell. His lips were sealed. I did not understand then, but I understand now. I sent him away! I joined with the others who persecuted him. And all the time—all the time he was innocent!"
Her last words were almost a wail. I was relieved to see that the tears were in her eyes at last.
"It was very hard fortune," I said awkwardly.
"His life has been one long exile," she said. "He has never married; he has been dead to the world for many years. His name, of course, is not Leslie Guest! If I dared tell you, you would understand I want him—oh! I want him so much to have a few years of happiness."
"What can we do, Lady Dennisford?" I asked earnestly.
"Take me up to him. Leave me with him alone."