"I mean it. You may heap any disgrace you like on us, only spare Aldyth. It is her misfortune to be connected with us."
Here Gladys's voice faltered. It was rarely she gave way to tears, but now she sank on to a chair, and hot tears of shame and sorrow rained down her checks.
The effect on Guy was electrical. In a moment, he was beside her, uttering passionate words. "Gladys, how can you speak of disgrace! There shall be none; no one shall ever know. Do you think I cannot, for your dear sake, forgive your mother any wrong she has done me? Despise you, indeed, when I love you like my life! Only say that you will share everything with me, and trust to me that all shall be well."
"No, Guy; not now," said Gladys, gently pushing him from her. "Mother would never have let me whilst you had only the farm, and now—now I cannot. I will not have it said that I changed my mind because Wyndham turned out to be yours."
"Would it be a change of mind?" Guy was happily inspired to ask. "Were you quite indifferent to me before? Darling, give me the right to call you my own, and we can keep our own counsel about Wyndham for the present. If you can love me, what does it matter how people talk?"
"You are very good; we do not deserve—" Gladys began.
But her lover would not listen to such words.
Meanwhile Aldyth had vanished, and neither of the two knew at what moment she slipped away.
As soon as she had regained composure, Aldyth went to her mother's room.
Mrs. Stanton's face wore an expression of pain. She looked anxiously at her daughter, saying only—