Lord Yester came down slowly.
What was it this terrible man had said to her as he came in?—"Will you tell him or shall I?"
What was there to tell? What could he tell? Women, and men too, with a past generally tell it before any one else has the chance—their version of it. Edith had her history and she had been the first to tell him her version in which she was always the injured and suffering heroine.
"If it is anything discreditable to her, to Lady Effington, I would not believe you," he said with quivering intensity.
"That is for you to decide," said Hal. What a game little chap it was! he thought, as he looked at his sensitive, delicate face, made for suffering. And he'll hate me to his dying day.
"Perhaps it won't make any difference," he added, and at the thought a gleam of hope came into his own life. Suppose it didn't make any difference? Suppose this reckless little Knight-errant threw all caution, all considerations to the winds; suppose that, knowing the truth, all the truth, he still held out his arms to Edith and demanded the right to assume her burdens? Ah, then Hal's hands were clean and would be free to—He glanced up to see Sir George Rundall. Oh, if Rundall hadn't known or had kept silent. It was too late for regret now.
"Sir George," he said to the doctor, "Edith has refused to leave London, to go with me. If Lord Yester would help us—perhaps——"
"Lord Effington," said the physician sternly, interrupting Hal, "I am not in the habit of discussing my patients before strangers."
"Lord Yester is not a stranger," said Hal without irony. "He enjoys my wife's confidence and friendship and if——"
"I am proud to believe that that is true," said Yester with equal sincerity. "And if it concerns the health or happiness of Lady Effington, you may rely on me, Sir George Rundall."