She laughed a little as she quitted the room.  It was difficult to remain longer, and it never occurred to her to suspect that any graver matter than this action was in question.

“Now, Carr?” began Lord Hartledon, seating himself near the table as he closed the door after her, and speaking in low tones.

“I received this letter by the afternoon mail,” said Mr. Carr, taking one from the safe enclosure of his pocket-book.  “It is satisfactory, so far as it goes.”

“I call it very satisfactory,” returned Hartledon, glancing through it.  “I thought he’d listen to reason.  What is done cannot be undone, and exposure will answer no end.  I wrote him an urgent letter the other day, begging him to be silent for Maude’s sake.  Were I to expiate the past with my life, it could not undo it.  If he brought me to the bar of my country to plead guilty or not guilty, the past would remain the same.”

“And I put the matter to him in my letter somewhat in the same light, though in a more business-like point of view,” returned Mr. Carr.  “There was no entreaty in mine.  I left compassion, whether for you or others, out of the argument; and said to him, what will you gain by exposure, and how will you reconcile it to your conscience to inflict on innocent persons the torture exposure must bring?”

“I shall breathe freely now,” said Hartledon, with a sigh of relief.”  If that man gives his word not to stir in the matter, not to take proceedings against me; in short, to bury what he knows in secrecy and silence, as he has hitherto done; it will be all I can hope for.”

Mr. Carr lifted his eyebrows.

“I perceive what you think:  that the fact remains.  Carr, I know it as well as you; I know that nothing can alter it.  Don’t you see that remorse is ever present with me? driving me mad? killing me by inches with its pain?”

“Do you know what I should be tempted to do, were the case mine?”

“Well?”

“Tell my wife.”

“Carr!”

“I almost think I should; I am not quite sure.  Should the truth ever come to her—­”

“But I trust it never will come to her,” interrupted Hartledon, his face growing hot.

“It’s a delicate point to argue,” acknowledged Mr. Carr, “and I cannot hope to bring you into my way of looking at it.  Had you married Miss Ashton, it appears to me that you would have no resource but to tell her:  the very fact of being bound to you would kill a religious, high-principled woman.”

“Not if she remained in ignorance.”

“There it is.  Ought she to remain in ignorance?”

Lord Hartledon leaned his head on his hand as one faint and weary.  “Carr, it is of no use to go over all this ground again.  If I disclose the whole to Maude, how would it make it better for her?  Would it not render it a hundred times worse?  She could not inform against me; it would be contrary to human nature to suppose it; and all the result would be, that she must go through life with the awful secret upon her, rendering her days a hell upon earth, as it is rendering mine.  It’s true she might separate from me; I dare say she would; but what satisfaction would that bring her?  No; the kinder course is to allow her to remain in ignorance.  Good Heavens! tell my wife!  I should never dare do it!”