“Of that,” he observed, “you must allow me to be the best judge.”

She bowed submissively.

“The dearest thing in life to me is the honor of my name, the honor of my race,” said Lord Arleigh.  “It has never been tarnished and I pray Heaven that no stain may ever rest upon it.  I will be frank with you, Madaline, as you are with me, though I love you so dearly that my very life is bound up in yours.  I would not ask you to be my wife if I thought that in doing so I was bringing a shadow of dishonor on my race—­if I thought that I was in even ever so slight a degree tarnishing my name; but I do not think so.  I speak to you frankly.  I know the story of your misfortunes, and, knowing it, do not deem it sufficient to part us.  Listen and believe me, Madaline—­if I stood with you before the altar, with your hand in mine, and the solemn words of the marriage service on my lips, and anything even then came to my knowledge which I thought prejudicial to the fame and honor of my race, I should without hesitation ask you to release me.  Do you believe me?”

“Yes,” she replied, slowly, “I believe you.”

“Then why not trust me fully?  I know your story—­it is an old story after all.  I know it by heart; I am the best judge of it.  I have weighed it most carefully; it has not been a lightly-considered matter with me at all, and, after thinking it well over, I have come to the conclusion that it is not sufficient to part us.  You see, sweet, that you may implicitly believe me.  I have no false gloss of compliments.  Frankly, as you yourself would do, I admit the drawback; but, unlike you, I affirm that it does not matter.”

“But would you always think so?  The time might come when the remembrance of my father’s——­”

“Hush!” he said, gently.  “The matter must never be discussed between us.  I tell you frankly that I should not care for the whole world to know your story.  I know it—­the duke and duchess know it.  There is no need for it to be known to others; and, believe me, Madaline, it will never be and need never be known—­we may keep it out of sight.  It is not likely that I shall ever repent, for it will never be of any more importance to me than it is now.”

He paused abruptly, for her blue eyes were looking wistfully at him.

“What is it, Madaline?” he asked, gently.

“I wish you would let me tell you all about it—­how my mother, so gentle and good, came to marry my father, and how he fell—­how he was tempted and fell.  May I tell you, Lord Arleigh?”

“No,” he replied, after a short pause, “I would rather not hear it.  The duchess has told me all I care to know.  It will be better, believe me, for the whole story to die away.  If I had wished to hear it, I should have asked you to tell it me.”

“It would make me happier,” she said; “I should know then that there was no mistake.”

“There is no mistake, my darling—­the duchess has told me; and it is not likely that she has made a mistake, is it?”