“Yes,” replied Wainbridge.
His uncle stared at him aghast. Admiration, blended with contempt, showed in his countenance—admiration for the audacity of the plan, contempt for its failure.
“I thought, when I did think,” said the nephew, “that if we were once married, if she were only bound to me by indissoluble ties, she could not leave me, and if at any time she heard rumours, well, she would have kept quiet about it. The other woman does not know my name.”
“It is dreadful,” said Lord Wainbridge. “Now there is no heir and your aunt—” he sighed. “I wish you had not told me. I should have preferred your being reticent with me. It is most unfortunate. I wish I did not know it.”
His was the hopeless lament of the aged.
“How old you are,” thought his nephew, who was more than sorry; but he did not groan—that was of no avail.
“There is an heir,” he said.
“You are a greater fool than I thought you. What will you tell your aunt?”
“Nothing—or the settlement story? which you prefer.”
He regretted being found out. His god had been the fear of discovery; he worshipped it, and to it he had made many sacrifices. But it was all over.