have let you suffer and
said never one word."

I put her hand to my lips. "Madam," I said, "you mistake; I do not
suffer. That which you think of as my suffering and my disgrace is
my glory and happiness."

"Yes, and why, and why? Oh, Harry, 'tis that which is breaking my
heart. 'Tis because you love Mary, 'tis because, I verily believe,
you have loved her from the first minute you set eyes on her, though
she was but a baby in arms. At first I thought it was Catherine, in
spite of her fault, but now I know it was for the sake of Mary that
you sacrificed yourself--for her sister, Harry, I know, I know,
and I would to God that I could give you your heart's desire, for
'tis mine also!"

Then, so saying, this old woman, who had in her such a majesty of
character and pride that it held folk aloof at a farther distance
than loud swaggerings of importance of men high in office, drew down
my head to her withered shoulder and touched my cheek with a hand of
compassionate pity and blessing, as if I had been in truth her son,
and caught her breath again and again with a sobbing sigh. All that
I could say to comfort her I said, assuring her, as was indeed the
truth, that no woman could justly estimate the view which a man
might take of such a condition as mine, and how the power of service
to love might be enough to content one, and he stand in no need of
pity, but she was not much consoled. "Harry," she said, "Harry, thou
art like a knight of olden times about whom a song was written,
which I heard sung in my girlhood, and which used to bring the
tears, though I was never too ready with them. Woe be to me that I,
knowing what I know, have yet not the courage to sacrifice my pride
and my unworthy granddaughter, and see you free. Oh, Harry, that
thou shouldst sit at home when thou art fitted by birth and breeding
to go with the best of them! Harry, I pray thee, put on thy
plum-coloured suit and go to the ball."

"Dear Madam Cavendish," I said, half laughing, for she seemed more
and more like a child, "you know that it cannot be, and that I have
no desire for balls."

"But I would have thee go, Harry."

"But I am not asked," I said.

"What matters that? 'Tis almost with open doors, since it is a
farewell of my Lord Culpeper before sailing for England. Harry, go,
and--a--and--I swear if any exception be taken to it, I--I--will
tell the truth."

"Dear madam, it cannot be," I said, "and the truth is to be
concealed not onl