“I wish you would understand once for all, Lady Kirton, that the Ashtons are our equals in every way,” he interrupted:  “and,” he added, “in worth and goodness infinitely our superiors.”

The dowager gave a sniff.  “You think so, I know, Hart.  Well, the only plan to bring you peace is this:  make Maude your wife.  At once; without delay.”

The proposition took away Val’s breath.  “I could not do it, Lady Kirton.  To begin with, they’d bring an action against me for breach of promise.”

“Breach of nonsense!” wrathfully returned the dowager.  “Was ever such a thing heard of yet, as a doctor of divinity bringing an action of that nature?  He’d lose his gown.”

“I wish I was at the bottom of a deep well, never to come up again!” mentally aspirated the unfortunate man.

“Will—­you—­marry—­Maude?” demanded the dowager, with a fixed denunciation in every word, which was as so much slow torture to her victim.

“I wish I could.  You must see for yourself, Lady Kirton, that I cannot.  Maude must see it.”

“I see nothing of the sort.  You are bound to her in honour.”

“All I can do is to remain single to the end of my days,” said Val, after a pause.  “I have been a great villain to both, and I cannot repair it to either.  The one stands in the way of the other.”

“But—­”

“I beg your pardon, ma’am,” he interrupted, so peremptorily that the old woman trembled for her power.  “This is my final decision, and I will not hear another word.  I feel ready to hang myself, as it is.  You tell me I cannot marry any other than Maude without being a scoundrel; the same thing precisely applies to Anne.  I shall remain single.”

“You will give me one promise—­for Maude’s sake.  Not, after this, to marry Anne Ashton.”

“Why, how can I do it?” asked he, in tones of exasperation.  “Don’t you see that it is impossible?  I shall not see the Ashtons again, ma’am; I would rather go a hundred miles the other way than face them.”

The countess-dowager probably deemed she had said sufficient for safety; for she went out and shut the door after her.  Lord Hartledon dashed his hair from his brow with a hasty hand, and was about to leave the room by the other door, when Maude came up to him.

“Is this to be the end of it, Percival?”

She spoke in tones of pain, of tremulous tenderness; all her pride gone out of her.  Lord Hartledon laid his hand upon her shoulder, meeting the dark eyes that were raised to his through tears.

“Do you indeed love me like this, Maude?  Somehow I never thought it.”

“I love you better than the whole world.  I love you enough to give up everything for you.”

The emphasis conveyed a reproach—­that he did not “give up everything” for her.  But Lord Hartledon kept his head for once.

“Heaven knows my bitter repentance.  If I could repair this folly of mine by any sacrifice on my own part, I would gladly do it.  Let me go, Maude!  I have been here long enough, unless I were more worthy.  I would ask you to forgive me if I knew how to frame the petition.”