"No; I am innocent. Everybody who knows me believes in my innocence. It is true the appearances were against me. They are against me still." Having said this, she waited, quietly and firmly, for his next words.
He passed his hand over his forehead with a sigh of relief. "It's bad enough as it is," he said, speaking quietly on his side. "But the remedy for it is plain enough. Come back to the tent."She never moved. "Why?" she asked.
"Do you suppose I don't believe in your innocence too?" he answered. "The one way of setting you right with the world now is for me to make you my wife, in spite of the appearances that point to you. I'm too fond of you, Isabel, to give you up. Come back with me, and I will announce our marriage to my friends."She took his hand, and kissed it. "It is generous and good of you," she said; "but it must not be."He took a step nearer to her. "What do you mean?" he asked.
"It was against my will," she pursued, "that my aunt concealed the truth from you. I did wrong to consent to it, I will do wrong no more. Your mother is right, Alfred. After what has happened, I am not fit to be your wife until my innocence is proved. It is not proved yet."The angry color began to rise in his face once more. "Take care," he said; "I am not in a humor to be trifled with.""I am not trifling with you," she answered, in low, sad tones. "You really mean what you say?""I mean it."
"Don't be obstinate, Isabel. Take time to consider.""You are very kind, Alfred. My duty is plain to me. I will marry you-- if you still wish it--when my good name is restored to me. Not before."He laid one hand on her arm, and pointed with the other to the guests in the distance, all leaving the tent on the way to their carriages.
"You r good name will be restored to you," he said, "on the day when I make you my wife. The worst enemy you have cannot associate _my_ name with a suspicion of theft. Remember that and think a little before you decide. You see those people there. If you don't change your mind by the time they have got to the cottage, it's good-by between us, and good-by forever. I refuse to wait for you; I refuse to accept a conditional engagement. Wait, and think. They're walking slowly; you have got some minutes more."He still held her arm, watching the guests as they gradually receded from view. It was not until they had all collected in a group outside the cottage door that he spoke himself, or that he permitted Isabel to speak again.
"Now," he said, "you have had your time to get cool. Will you take my arm, and join those people with me? or will you say good-by forever?""Forgive me, Alfred!" she began, gently. "I cannot consent, in justice to you, to shelter myself behind your name. It is the name of your family; and they have a right to expect that you will not degrade it--""I want a plain answer," he interposed sternly. "Which is it? Yes, or No?"She looked at him with sad compassionate eyes. Her voice was firm as she answered him in one word as he had desired. The word was-- "No."Without speaking to her, without even looking at her, he turned and walked back to the cottage.
Making his way silently through the group of visitors--every one of whom had been informed of what had happened by his sister--with his head down and his lips fast closed, he entered the parlor and rang the bell which communicated with his foreman's rooms at the stables.
"You know that I am going abroad on business?" he said, when the man appeared.
"Yes, sir."
"I am going to-day--going by the night train to Dover. Order the horse to be put to instantly in the dogcart. Is there anything wanted before I am off?"The inexorable necessities of business asserted their claims through the obedient medium of the foreman. Chafing at the delay, Hardyman was obliged to sit at his desk, signing checks and passing accounts, with the dogcart waiting in the stable yard.
A knock at the door startled him in the middle of his work. "Come in," he called out sharply.
He looked up, expecting to see one of the guests or one of the servants. It was Moody who entered the room. Hardyman laid down his pen, and fixed his eyes sternly on the man who had dared to interrupt him.
"What the devil do _you_ want?" he asked.
"I have seen Miss Isabel, and spoken with her," Moody replied. "Mr. Hardyman, I believe it is in your power to set this matter right. For the young lady's sake, sir, you must not leave England without doing it."Hardyman turned to his foreman. "Is this fellow mad or drunk?" he asked.
Moody proceeded as calmly and as resolutely as if those words had not been spoken. "I apologize for my intrusion, sir. I will trouble you with no explanations. I will only ask one question. Have you a memorandum of the number of that five-hundred pound note you paid away in France?"Hardyman lost all control over himself.
"You scoundrel!" he cried, "have you been prying into my private affairs? Is it _your_ business to know what I did in France?""Is it _your_ vengeance on a woman to refuse to tell her the number of a bank-note?" Moody rejoined, firmly.
That answer forced its way, through Hardyman's anger, to Hardyman's sense of honor. He rose and advanced to Moody. For a moment the two men faced each other in silence. "You're a bold fellow," said Hardyman, with a sudden change from anger to irony. "I'll do the lady justice. I'll look at my pocketbook."He put his hand into the breast-pocket of his coat; he searched his other pockets; he turned over the objects on his writing-table. The book was gone.
