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 only for your sake, but for that of others.”

Then she broke out in another paroxysm of childish wailing that never was such a wretched state of matters, such a wretched old woman handicapped from serving one by her love for another.  “Harry, I cannot clear thee unless I convict my own granddaughter Catherine,” she said, piteously, “and if I spared her not, neither her nor my pride, what of Mary?  Catherine hath been like a mother to the child, and she loves her better than she loves me.  ’Twould kill her, Harry.  And, Harry, how can I give Mary to thee, and thou under this ban?  Mary Cavendish cannot wed a convict.”

“That she cannot and shall not,” I said; “she shall wed a much worthier man and be happy, and sure ’tis her happiness that is the question.”

But Madam Cavendish stared at me with unreasoning anger, not understanding, since she was a woman, and unreasoning as a woman will be in such matters.  “If you love not my granddaughter, Harry Wingfield,” she cried out, “’tis not her grandmother will fling her at your head.  I will let you know, sir, that she could have her pick in the colony if she so chose, and it may be that she might not choose you, Master Harry Wingfield.”

I laughed.  “Madam Cavendish,” I said, rising and bowing, “were I a king instead of a convict, then would I lay my crown at Mary Cavendish’s feet; as it is, I can but pave, if I may, her way to happiness with my heart.”

“Then you love her as I thought, Harry?”

“Madam,” I said, “I love her to my honour and glory and never to my discontent, and I pray you to believe with a love that makes no account of selfish ends, and that I am happier at home with my books than many a cavalier who shall dance with her at the ball.”