“It might have been better for me in the long run,” said he, quietly, passing over the inconsistencies of her speech.  “Little peace or happiness have I had in living.  Do not let us recriminate, Lady Kirton, or on some scores I might reproach you.  Maude loved my brother, and you knew it; I loved Miss Ashton, and you knew that; yet from the very hour the breath was out of my brother’s body you laid your plans and began your schemes upon me.  I was weak as water in your hands, and fell into the snare.  The marriage was your work entirely; and in the fruits it has brought forth there might arise a nice question, Lady Kirton, which of us is most to blame:  I, who erred unwittingly, or you who—­”

“Will you have done?” she cried.

“I have nearly done.  I only wish you to remember that others may have been wrong, as well as myself.  Dr. Ashton warned us that night that the marriage might not bring a blessing.  Anne, it was a cruel wrong upon you,” he added, impulsively turning to her; “you felt it bitterly, I shamefully; but, my dear wife, you have lived to see that it was in reality a mercy in disguise.”

The countess-dowager, not finding words strong enough to express her feelings at this, made a grimace at him.

“Let us be friends, Lady Kirton!  Let us join together silently in guarding Maude’s good name, and in burying the past.  In time perhaps even I may live it down.  Not a human being knows of it except we who are here and Dr. Mair, who will for his own sake guard the secret.  Maude was my wife always in the eyes of the world; and Maude certainly died so:  all peace and respect to her memory!  As for my share, retribution has held its heavy hand upon me; it is upon me still, Heaven knows.  It was for Maude I suffered; for Maude I felt; and if my life could have repaired the wrong upon her, I would willingly have sacrificed it.  Let us be friends:  it may be to the interest of both.”

He held out his hand, and the dowager did not repulse it.  She had caught the word “interest.”

“Now you might allow me Maude and that income!”

“I think I had better allow you the income without Maude.”

“Eh? what?” cried the dowager, briskly.  “Do you mean it?”

“Indeed I do.  I have been thinking for some little time that you would be more comfortable in a home of your own, and I am willing to help you to one.  I’ll pay the rent of a nice little place in Ireland, and give you six hundred a-year, paid quarterly, and—­yes—­make you a yearly present of ten dozen of port wine.”

Ah, the crafty man!  The last item had a golden sound in it.

“Honour bright, Hartledon?”

“Honour bright!  You shall never want for anything as long as you live.  But you must not”—­he seemed to search for his words—­“you must undertake not to come here, upsetting and indulging the children.”

“I’ll undertake it.  Good vintage, mind.”