“It might be, but it isn’t,” said Lally, full of suppressed excitement, that made her strangely beautiful. “This is a gentleman’s glove. See how soft and fine the kid is. The color is just the shade of lavender Rufus used to wear when he wore gloves, and it has just the jessamine scent he used to drop always into his gloves. And—and here is one of the very glove buttons he used to slip from one pair of gloves to another. I would know that small gold knob, with its chased edge, anywhere. Peters, he has been here! Rufus has been here.”
The flushing, agitated face of Mrs. Peters confessed the truth.
“He has followed us up from London!” cried Lally, her eyes glowing like suns. “He has come after me and traced me to this place. He loves me still—he must love me, Peters! He must love me better than Miss Wynde?”
“He said so, Miss Lally.”
“Ah, then it is true? But why did he go away without seeing me? Why did you not call me? Perhaps he will give up all for me, thinking me still poor like himself?”
“He said he would, Miss Lally,” said poor, honest Mrs. Peters, driven to full confession. “He thinks that I am Miss Wroat, and that you are Mrs. Peters, my poor companion. And he says he loves you, and wants to marry you; but he is so unstable and cowardly, and I knew you ought to make a grand marriage, with your face and your fortune; and so—and so, Miss Lally, I sent him off, and he’s gone back to England and to Miss Wynde.”
Poor Lally stared at her maid with dilating eyes and horror-stricken countenance. Then she said, in a wailing voice:
“Oh, Peters, you meant well, I know: but—but you’ve broken my heart!”
And with a low, wild moan, Lally fell forward in a dead swoon.