"You are—you know you are!" the old woman passionately cried. "You know I hate this man—this spendthrift, this fortune-seeker, this smooth-spoken, false-hearted hypocrite! Give up this man—promise me never to speak to him again, and then I will believe you!"
Nathalie stood silent.
"Promise," shrilly screamed Lady Leroy, "promise or else——"
She stopped short, but the white rage in her distorted face finished the sentence with emphasis.
"I will promise you one thing," said Nathalie, turning pale and cold, "that he shall not come to Redmon any more. You accuse him unjustly, Mrs. Leroy—he is none of the things you say. Do not ask me to promise anything else—I cannot do it!"
What Lady Leroy would have said to this Nathalie never knew; for at that moment there came a loud knock at the front door, and Miss Marsh, only too glad to escape, flew down to answer it.
The alarm at the outer door proved to come from Charley Marsh; and Nathalie stared, as she saw how pale and haggard he looked—so unlike her bright-faced brother.
"What ails you, Charley?" she anxiously asked. "Are you sick?"
"Sick? No! Why should I be sick?"
"You are as pale and worn-looking as if you had been ill for a month. Something has gone wrong."