"Regret!" he echoed. "No, I shall never regret, because, Jean, I love you!"

"Have you ever thought that, while you are a peer and a Cabinet Minister, I am only a nurse?"

"Social status should not be considered when a man loves a woman as truly and devotedly as I love you. Remember, to you I owe my recovery,"

he said frankly. "In the weeks you have spent at my side I have realised that life will now be a blank when you have left my roof. But must it be so? Will you not take pity upon me and try to reciprocate, in even a small degree, the great love I bear you? Do, Jean, I beg of you."

She was silent for a long time, her eyes fixed across the terrace upon the pretty Italian garden, to the belt of high, dark firs beyond.

"You ask me this, Lord Bracondale, and yet you do not even know my surname!" she remarked at last.

"Whatever your surname may be, it makes no difference to me," was his reply. "Whatever skeleton may be hidden in your cupboard is no affair of mine. I ask nothing regarding your past life. To me, you are honest and pure. I know that, or you would not lead the life you now lead. I only know, Jean, that I love you," and, again taking her soft hand tenderly, he once more raised it to his lips and imprinted upon it tender kisses.

His words showed her that his affection was genuine. His promise not to seek to unveil her past gave her courage, for she had all along been suspicious that he was endeavouring to learn her secret. What would he say, how would he treat her, if he ever knew the ghastly truth?

"Now, I wish to a.s.sure you," he went on, "that I have no desire whatever that you should tell me the slightest thing which you may wish to regard as your own secret. All of us, more or less, possess some family confidence which we have no desire to be paraded before our friends. A wife should, of course, have no secrets from her husband after marriage.

But her secrets before she becomes a wife are her own, and her husband has no right to inquire into them. I speak to you, Jean, as a man of the world, as a man who has sympathy for women, and who is cognisant of a woman's feelings."

"Do you really mean what you say, Lord Bracondale?" she asked, raising her serious eyes inquiringly to his.

"I certainly do. I have never been more earnest, or sincere, in all my life than I am at this moment."

"You certainly show a generous nature," she replied. His a.s.surance had swept away her fears. She dreaded lest he should know the truth of the tragedy of her marriage. She held Darnborough in fear, because he seemed always to suspect her. Besides, what could that file of papers have contained--what facts concerning her friend's tragic end?

"I hate to think of your wearing your life out in a sick-room, Jean," he said. "It is distressing to me that you, whom I love so dearly, should be doomed to a convent life, however sincere, devout, and holy."

"It is my sphere," she replied.

"Your proper sphere is at my side--as my wife," he declared. "Ah, Jean, will you only give me hope, will you only endeavour to show me a single spark of affection, will you try and reciprocate, to the smallest extent, my love for you? Mine is no boyish infatuation, but the love of a man whose mind is matured, even soured by the world's follies and vanities. I tell you that I love you. Will you be mine?"

She still hesitated. His question nonplussed her.

How could she, the widow of a notorious thief dare to become Countess of Bracondale!

He noticed her hesitation, and put it down to her natural reticence and shyness. He loved her with all his heart and soul. Never, in all his career, had he ever met, in society or out of it, a woman to whom he had been so deeply devoted. He had watched her closely with the keen criticism of a practised mind, and he had found her to be his ideal.

She was still standing against the pale blue settee, leaning against it for support. Her face was pale as death, with two pink spots in the centre of the cheeks betraying her excitement and emotion. She dare not open her mouth lest she should betray the reason of her hesitation. It was upon the tip of her tongue to confess all.

Yet had he not already told her that he had no desire to probe the secret of her past--that he only desired her for herself, that her past was her own affair, and that his only concern was her future, because he loved her so? She recognised how good, how kind, how generous, and how every trait of his character was that of the high-born English gentleman. In secret she had long admired him, yet she had been careful not to betray an undue interest beyond that of his accident. In such circ.u.mstances a woman's diplomacy is always marvellous. In the concealment of her true feelings, woman can always give many points to a man.

Bracondale was awaiting her answer. His eyes were fixed upon hers, though her gaze was averted. He held her in his arms, and again repeated his question in a low, intense voice, the voice of a man filled with the pa.s.sion of true affection.

"Will you be mine, dearest?" he asked, a second time. "Will you trust in me and throw in your lot in life with mine?"

She shook her head.

"No, Lord Bracondale; such a marriage would, for you, be most injudicious. You must marry one of your own people."

"Never!" he cried in desperation. "If I marry, it will be only your own dear self."

"But think--think what the world will say."

"Let the world say what it likes," he laughed. "Remember my policy and my doings are criticised by the Opposition newspapers every day. But I have learned to disregard hard words. I am my own master in my private life as well as in my public life, and if you will only consent to be my wife I shall tackle the difficult European problems with renewed vigour, well knowing that I have at least one sympathiser and helpmate--my wife."

He paused, and looked into her dark eyes for quite a long time.

Then, bending till his lips almost touched hers, and placing his arm tenderly about her waist, he asked breathlessly:

"Jean, tell me, darling, that you do not hate me--that you will try to love me--that you will consent to become my wife. Do, I beg of you."

For a few seconds she remained silent in his embrace, then slowly her lips moved.

But so stirred by emotion was she that no sound escaped them.

"You will be mine, darling, will you not?" he urged. "Jean, I love you--I'll love you for ever--always! Do, I beseech of you, give me hope.

Say that you love me just a little--only just a little."

Tears welled in her great, dark eyes, and again her chest heaved and fell.

Then, of a sudden, her head fell upon his shoulder and she buried her face, sobbing in mute consent, while he, on his part, pressed her closely to him and smothered her cheek with burning kisses.

CHAPTER XIX.

THE GARDEN OF LOVE.

Six years later.

The years had gone by--happy, blissful years, during which the Countess of Bracondale had become a popular society and political hostess.

At Bracondale, and in Scotland, the Earl and his wife had on three occasions entertained the Sovereign at shooting-parties, and no social function was complete without the handsome, half-French Lady Bracondale.

After her marriage, though she had no ambition to enter that wild world of unrest which we call modern society, she realised that, in order to a.s.sist her husband in his political and diplomatic work, she was compelled to take her place in London life. So she had entered upon it cheerfully; the town house had been redecorated, and many brilliant functions--dinners, b.a.l.l.s, diplomatic receptions, and the like--had been given, while at the Foreign Office receptions her ladyship always acted as hostess to the _corps diplomatique_.

The society newspapers gave her portrait constantly, and declared her to be among the most beautiful women in England.

Wealth, position, popularity, all were hers, and, in addition, she had the great love of her devoted husband, and the comfort of her sweet little daughter, Lady Enid Heathcote--a child with pretty, golden hair--whom she adored. The happiest of wives and mothers, she also bore her part as one of the great ladies of the land, and her husband was ever proud of her, ever filled with admiration.

It was eight o'clock on a warm, August morning at Bracondale, where Jean and her little daughter, with Miss Oliver, the governess, were spending the summer.

Jean came down to breakfast in a pretty gown of j.a.panese silk embroidered with large, crimson roses, and pa.s.sed through the dining-room out upon the terrace overlooking the park, where, on warm mornings, it was their habit to take their coffee in Continental style.

As she went along to where the table was set, little Enid, with her hair tied at the side with blue ribbon, and wearing a pretty, cotton frock, came dancing along the terrace, where she was walking with her governess, crying in her childish voice:

"Good morning, mother, dear. I wish you many happy returns of your birthday."

"Thank you, darling," replied Jean, catching the child up in her arms and kissing her, while Miss Oliver, a tall, discreet, and rather prim person, at that moment came up with a great bunch of fresh roses which she had just cut for the table.