I would come back for it—­of course I never did—­but for twelve years I sent money for it from different places in Europe—­and before I left England I told Maude where it was, in case she ever wanted to see it—­not that such an idea would ever occur to her!  I thought the probabilities were that the farmer, having no children of his own, would be likely to adopt the one left on his hands, and that she would grow up a happy, healthy country lass, without a care, and marry some good, sound, simple rustic fellow.  But you know everything, I suppose!—­or so your looks imply.  Is the child alive?”

Lord Blythe held up his hand.

“Now, Pierce, it is my turn,” he said—­“Your share in the story I already knew in part—­but one thing you have not told me—­one wrong you have not confessed.”

“Oh, there are a thousand wrongs I have committed,” said Armitage, with a slight, weary gesture.  “Life and love have both disappointed me—­and I suppose when that sort of thing happens a man goes more or less to the dogs—­”

“Life and love have disappointed a good many folks,” said Blythe—­ “Women perhaps more than men.  And one woman especially, who hardly merited disappointment—­one who loved you very truly, Pierce!—­ have you any idea who it is I mean?”

Armitage moved restlessly,—­a slight flush coloured his face.

“You mean Lavinia Leigh?” he said—­“Yes—­I behaved like a cad.  I know it!  But—­I could not help myself.  Maude drew me on with her lovely eyes and smile!  And to think she is dead!—­all that beauty in the grave!—­cold and mouldering!” He covered his eyes with one hand, and a visible tremor shook him.  “Somehow I have always fancied her as young as ever and endowed with a sort of earthly immortality!  She was so bright, so imperious, so queen-like!  You ask me why I did not let you know I was living?  Blythe, I would have died in very truth by my own hand rather than trouble her peace in her married life with you!” He paused—­then glanced up at his friend, with the wan flicker of a smile—­“And—­do you know Lavinia Leigh?”

“I do,” answered Blythe—­“I know and honour her!  And—­your daughter is with her now!”

Armitage sprang up.

“My daughter!  With Lavinia!  No!—­impossible—­incredible!—­”

“Sit down again, Pierce,” and Lord Blythe himself drew up a chair close to Armitage—­“Sit down and be patient!  You know the lines—­ ’There’s a divinity that shapes our ends, rough-hew them how we will’?  Divinity has worked in strange ways with you, Pierce!—­and still more strangely with your child.  Will you listen while I tell you all?”

Armitage sank into his chair,—­his hands trembled—­he was greatly agitated,—­and his eyes were fixed on his friend’s face in an eager passion of appeal.

“I will listen as if you were an angel speaking, Dick!” he said.  “Let me know the worst!—­or the best—­of everything!”