’And if—­instead of waiting-for this King Arthur of yours—­I were to do as Iseult did—­as Guinevere did—­choose for myself——­’

’Iseult and Guinevere were wantons.  I wonder that you can name them in comparison with yourself.’

’If I were to marry a good and honourable man who has his place to make in the world, would you never forgive me?’

‘You mean Mr. Hammond?  You may just as well speak plainly,’ said Lady Maulevrier, freezingly.  ’If you were capable of such idiocy as that, Lesbia, I would pluck you out of my heart like a foul weed.  I would never look upon you, or hear your name spoken, or think of you again as long as I lived.  My life would not last very long after that blow.  Old age cannot bear such shocks.  Oh, Lesbia, I have been father and mother to you; do not bring my grey hairs in sorrow to the grave.’

Lesbia gave a deep sigh, and brushed the tears from her cheeks.  Yes, the very idea of such a marriage was foolishness.  Just now, in the pine wood, carried away by the force of her lover’s passion, by her own softer feelings, it had seemed to her as if she could count the world well lost for his sake; but now, at Lady Maulevrier’s feet, she became again true to her training, and the world was too much to lose.

‘What can I do, grandmother?’ she asked, submissively, despairingly.  ’He loves me, and I love him.  How can I tell him that he and I can never be anything to each other in this world?’

‘Refer him to me.  I will give him his answer.’

’No, no; that will not do.  I have promised to answer him myself.  He has gone for a walk on the hills, and will come back at four o’clock for my answer.’

‘Sit down at that table, and write as I dictate.’

‘But a letter will be so formal.’

’It is the only way in which you can answer him.  When he comes back from his walk you will have left Fellside.  I shall send you off to St. Bees with Fraeulein.  You must never look upon that man’s face again.’

Lesbia brushed away a few more tears, and obeyed.  She had been too well trained to attempt resistance.  Defiance was out of the question.

CHAPTER XII.

‘THE GREATER CANTLE OF THE WORLD IS LOST.’

The sky was still cloudless when John Hammond strolled slowly up the leafy avenue at Fellside.  He had been across the valley and up the hill to Easedale Tarn, and then by rough untrodden ways, across a chaos of rock and heather, into a second valley, long, narrow, and sterile, known as Far Easedale, a desolate gorge, a rugged cleft in the heart of the mountains.  The walk had been long and laborious; but only in such clambering and toiling, such expenditure of muscular force and latent heat, could the man’s restless soul endure those long hours of suspense.