From that fatal day, she had said good-bye to love, in a measure to youth. No other man would ever charm back the lovelight into the eyes of Mary Rossett.
But fate, which had stricken her so sorely, did not deprive her of her sweet and womanly qualities. She was the beloved companion of her brothers, the idol of her widowed father; and she was adored by all the villagers on the estate, to many of whom she was often a ministering angel.
The Earl of Saxham, as he entered the small drawing-room, was smiling in a peculiar manner. His daughter recognised that peculiar smile. Her father was very pleased with himself over something. But she knew what that something was.
“So Guy has come,” he cried cheerfully. “Well, Mary, don’t you give it away when he tells us the good news, or it will spoil it all.”
Lady Mary rose, and laid an affectionate hand on his arm.
“No need to caution me, dearest. You know I never give myself away. Keep a guard on yourself. Don’t smile too much, or look at me too meaningly when he is telling us, or he’ll spot it. You know, you are a little indiscreet at times.”
The Earl smiled genially.
“I know, I know, Mary. There is no fool like an old fool, they say. But this is really a great thing. I wrung it out of old Greatorex. And, once in Spain, we shall get him out of the reach of that young minx, Isobel Clandon.”
Mary’s brows contracted into a slight frown: Love had left her stranded, but she was still very sympathetic to young lovers.
“Why are you so hard on poor Isobel, father?” she asked in her clear, kind voice. “I know she is poor, but she is a lady and well-born.”