"L. M."
I folded up this letter with a shudder, and sitting down dashed off my reply. It is here:—
"My dear Uncle,—I am a culprit—a miserable, pleading culprit. It is true that I love an Englishman—the man who was standing by my side last night; and it is true that he has asked me to marry him. But I have not told him so, and I have not promised to marry him. That is not all of my confession. Not only is he an Englishman, but his name is Lord Lumley St. Maurice, and he is—her son.
"Now you know the terrible trouble I am in. Last night he was telling me of his love, and assuring me of his mother's sanction and approval, when your face appeared at the window. Can you wonder at my start, and that I fainted? Can you wonder that I sit here, after a sleepless night, with eyes that are dim and a heart that has become a stone? I dread to stir from the room. My position is horrible. I have tried my utmost to avoid him, to treat him with disdain, to send him away from me. I have steeled my heart and clothed my face with frowns—in vain! The bald fact remains that I love him. Do you despise me, uncle? Sometimes I feel that I deserve it; but I have suffered, I am suffering now. I am punished. Do not add your anger to my load!
"Immediately you get this, sit down and write to me. Write to me just what is in your heart. Your words I shall set before me as my law. Do not delay, and, if you blame, do not fail to pity me.—Yours ever unchanged,
"Margharita."
I sent this letter off with a certain sense of relief, and then, finding by my watch that it was late, finished dressing hastily, and went down into the schoolroom. Instead of my pupil, Lord Lumley was there lounging in my low basket-chair, yawning over a German grammar. He sprang up as I entered, and throwing the book into a corner of the room, advanced toward me with outstretched hands.