Two large tears welled up in Miss Laxton’s eyes, and rolled down her cheeks. “Oh, Adrian,” she said brokenly.
The next instant she was in his arms, and his lordship had forgotten both the race and his betrothal to Miss Grantham, but was wholly occupied in kissing Phoebe, drying her wet cheeks, and assuring her that she should never be unhappy or frightened again. It was she who came to earth first, raising her head from his shoulder, relinquishing her clutch on the cape of his coat, and saying in a drowned voice: “We must not! Deborah!”
His lordship let her go. She sat up, swallowing a sob, and they looked at one another, two troubled young people caught up by fate and unable to see the way to free themselves. His lordship gave a groan, and dropped his head between his clenched fists. “I must have been mad!”
“Oh no!” Phoebe said, dabbing at her eyes with a small handkerchief. “She is so very lovely, and kind, and—and—oh dear!”
“I thought I loved her. But I don’t. I love you, Phoebe! What are we to do?”
Miss Laxton’s eyes brimmed over again. “You will marry her, and I shall g-go into a nunnery, or s-something. You will soon f-forget me,” she said bravely.
This frightful picture of the future made Adrian raise his head, and say forcefully: “No!”
“But what can we do?” asked Phoebe. “I cannot marry Deb.”
Miss Laxton turned pale. “Oh, you can never tell her so!” An appalled silence fell. His lordship got up, and began to pace about the room. “If I don’t tell her, we shall all three of us be made unhappy.”
“No, no! She will never know, and you will forget this!”