‘You are jesting?—­you are a jester,’ he contrived to say.

‘It was a private marriage, and I was a witness,’ replied Stukely.

‘Lord Romfrey has made an honest woman of her, has he?’

‘A peeress, you mean.’

Cecil bowed.  ‘Exactly.  I am corrected.  I mean a peeress.’

He got out of the room with as high an air as he could command, feeling as if a bar of iron had flattened his head.

Next day it was intimated to him by one of the Steynham servants that apartments were ready for him at the residence of the late earl:  Lord Romfrey’s house was about to be occupied by the Countess of Romfrey.  Cecil had to quit, and he chose to be enamoured of that dignity of sulking so seductive to the wounded spirit of man.

Rosamund, Countess of Romfrey, had worse to endure from Beauchamp.  He indeed came to the house, and he went through the formalities of congratulation, but his opinion of her step was unconcealed, that she had taken it for the title.  He distressed her by reviving the case of Dr. Shrapnel, as though it were a matter of yesterday, telling her she had married a man with a stain on him; she should have exacted the Apology as a nuptial present; ay, and she would have done it if she had cared for the earl’s honour or her own.  So little did he understand men! so tenacious was he of his ideas!  She had almost forgotten the case of Dr. Shrapnel, and to see it shooting up again in the new path of her life was really irritating.

Rosamund did not defend herself.

‘I am very glad you have come, Nevil,’ she said; ’your uncle holds to the ceremony.  I may be of real use to you now; I wish to be.’

‘You have only to prove it,’ said he.  ’If you can turn his mind to marriage, you can send him to Bevisham.’

‘My chief thought is to serve you.’

‘I know it is, I know it is,’ he rejoined with some fervour.  ’You have served me, and made me miserable for life, and rightly.  Never mind, all’s well while the hand’s to the axe.’  Beauchamp smoothed his forehead roughly, trying hard to inspire himself with the tonic draughts of sentiments cast in the form of proverbs.  ‘Lord Romfrey saw her, you say?’

‘He did, Nevil, and admired her.’

’Well, if I suffer, let me think of her!  For courage and nobleness I shall never find her equal.  Have you changed your ideas of Frenchwomen now?  Not a word, you say, not a look, to show her disdain of me whenever my name was mentioned!’

‘She could scarcely feel disdain.  She was guilty of a sad error.’

’Through trusting in me.  Will nothing teach you where the fault lies?  You women have no mercy for women.  She went through the parade to Romfrey Castle and back, and she must have been perishing at heart.  That, you English call acting.  In history you have a respect for such acting up to the scaffold.  Good-bye to her!  There’s a story ended.  One thing you must promise:  you’re a peeress, ma’am:  the story’s out, everybody has heard of it; that babbler has done his worst:  if you have a becoming appreciation of your title, you will promise me honestly—­no, give me your word as a woman I can esteem—­that you will not run about excusing me.  Whatever you hear said or suggested, say nothing yourself.  I insist on your keeping silence.  Press my hand.’