“None.”
“And now you are letting it spoil your life?” she asked reproachfully.
“It does not wait for my permission,” he answered bitterly.
“Ah, but what a pity! Must one moment’s indiscretion interfere with all else in life? That is ridiculous. You have—what is the word?—expiated! yes, that is it—expiated it, I know.”
“The past can never be undone, madam.”
“That, of course, is true,” she nodded, with the air of a sage, “but it can be forgotten.”
His hand flew out eagerly and dropped back to his side. It was hopeless. He could not tell her the truth and ask her to share his disgrace; he must bear it alone, and, above all, he must not whine. He had chosen to take Richard’s blame and he must abide by the consequences. It was not a burden to be cast off as soon as it became too heavy for him. It was forever—forever. He forced his mind to grasp that fact. All through his life he must be alone against the world; his name would never be cleared; he could never ask this sweet child who sat before him with such a wistful, pleading look on her lovely face, to wed him. He looked down at her sombrely, telling himself that she did not really care: that it was his own foolish imagination. Now she was speaking: he listened to the liquid voice that repeated:
“Could it not be forgotten?”
“No, mademoiselle. It will always be there.”
“To all intents and purposes, might it not be forgotten?” she persisted.
“It will always stand in the way, mademoiselle.”
He supposed that mechanical voice was his own. Through his brain thrummed the thought: “It is for Dick’s sake … for Dick’s sake. For Dick’s sake you must be silent.” Resolutely he pulled himself together.
“It will stand in the way—of what?” asked Diana.
“I can never ask a woman to be my wife,” he replied.
Diana wantonly stripped a rose of its petals, letting each fragrant leaf flutter slowly to the ground.
“I do not see why you cannot, sir.”
“No woman would share my disgrace.”
“No?”
“No.”
“You seem very certain, Mr. Carr. Pray have you asked the lady?”
“No, madam.” Carstares was as white as she was red, but he was holding himself well in hand.
“Then—” the husky voice was very low, “then—why don’t you?”
The slim hand against the tree trunk was clenched tightly, she observed. In his pale face the blue eyes burnt dark.
“Because, madam, ’twere the action of a—of a—”
“Of a what, Mr. Carr?”
“A cur! A scoundrel! A blackguard!”
Another rose was sharing the fate of the first.
“I have heard it said that some women like—curs, and-and—and scoundrels; even blackguards,” remarked that provocative voice. Through her lashes its owner watched my lord’s knuckles gleam white against the tree-bark.
“Not the lady I love, madam.”
“Oh? But are you sure?”
“I am sure. She must marry a man whose honour is spotless; who is not—a nameless outcast, and who lives—not—by dice—and highway robbery.”
He knew that the brown eyes were glowing and sparkling with unshed tears, but he kept his own turned inexorably the other way. There was no doubting now that she cared, and that she knew that he did also. He could not leave her to think that her love had been slighted. She must not be hurt, but made to understand that he could not declare his love. But how hard it was, with her sorrowful gaze upon him and the pleading note in her voice. It was quivering now:
“Must she, sir?”
“Yes, madam.”
“But supposing—supposing the lady did not care? Supposing she—loved you—and was willing to share your disgrace?”
The ground at her feet was strewn with crimson petals, and all around and above her roses nodded and swayed. A tiny breeze was stirring her curls and the lace of her frock, but John would not allow himself to look, lest the temptation to catch her in his arms should prove too great for him. She was ready to give herself to him; to face anything, only to be with him. In the plainest language she offered herself to him, and he had to reject her.
“It is inconceivable that the lady would sacrifice herself in such a fashion, madam,” he said.
“Sacrifice!” She caught her breath. “You call it that!”
“What else?”
“I … I … I do not think that you are very wise, Mr. Carr. Nor … that you … understand women … very well. She might not call it by that name.”
“It would make no difference what she called it, madam. She would ruin her life, and that must never be.”
A white rose joined its fallen brethren, pulled to pieces by fingers that trembled pitifully.
“Mr. Carr, if the lady … loved you … is it quite fair to her—to say nothing?”
There was a long silence, and then my lord lied bravely.
“I hope that she will—in time—forget me,” he said.
Diana sat very still. No more roses were destroyed; the breeze wafted the fallen petals over her feet, lightly, almost playfully. Somewhere in the hedge a bird was singing, a full-throated sobbing plaint, and from all around came an incessant chirping and twittering. The sun sent its bright rays all over the garden, bathing it in gold and happiness; but for the two in the pleasaunce the light had gone out, and the world was very black.
“I see,” whispered Diana at last. “Poor lady!”
“I think it was a cursed day that saw me come into her life,” he groaned.
“Perhaps it was,” her hurt heart made answer.
He bowed his head.
“I can only hope that she will not think too hardly of me,” he said, very low. “And that she will find it in her heart to be sorry—for me—also.”
She rose and came up to him, her skirts brushing gently over the grass, holding out her hands imploringly.
“Mr. Carr. …”
He would not allow himself to look into the gold-flecked eyes. … He must remember Dick—his brother Dick!
In his hand he took the tips of her fingers, and bowing, kissed them. Then he turned on his heel and strode swiftly away between the hedges towards the quiet
