“You _would!_” cried Rose with eagerness; then added bitterly: “But no; you mean if I could say: 'Your son has never pressed his lips to these, has never sworn to be mine, and mine alone.' But you would not thank me for merely proving that in this, although he did it, he was not to blame.” “What! Not to blame?” “No, madam--for even for _his_ sake, I cannot longer bear this burden of undeserved shame. _Walter Lisgard is my husband_. We were married weeks ago, when I went to London in the spring.” “Married, married!” gasped my Lady. “Thank God for that! Far better to deceive _me_, boy, than this poor girl. I never thought to say: 'I am glad you are my daughter-in-law, Rose Aynton;' but I do say so now.” She took both her hands in hers, and gazed upon her downcast face, now overspread with blushes, and tinged for once with genuine tenderness. “It moves you, does it, that I am thankful to see the honour of my son preserved at some sacrifice of his prospects. How little do you know me, girl! yet I am glad to move you anyway. Rose, be a kind wife to him. I will not blame you for what has happened, although I have much cause. I must blame _him_ rather. Who can wonder that you yielded when he said: 'Be mine.' So gentle and so loving as he can be! Now, too, I see it all. When you refused Sir Richard in the library, you were actually his brother's wife. Ah, Heaven, you must not remain here longer--not a day. I shall write to Walter”---- “Nay, madam--_mother_,” exclaimed Rose beseechingly, “I pray you let _me_ write. I have broken my plighted word, and disobeyed my husband's bidding in revealing this. To please him, I had resolved to defend myself this morning as I best might, by returning thrust for thrust, without using this shield--my innocence--at all. But your bitter words--a shower of barbed darts--drove me behind it. He will be very wrath with me indeed, madam; but far worse if the news comes from you. He has much just now to make him anxious too.”