‘Your escapades—to call them nothing worse—have caused us—my poor lord and me—endless vexation and trouble. I was weary of hearing about them from—oh! well, from a number of different sources. People are not slow in repeating what is offensive, and your name has become a positive by-word in your regiment for every description of objectionable folly. Is it surprising if, at last, I gave up in despair? No doubt, it was wrong of me’—she glanced with very moving appeal in my direction—‘but really, things came to a point last winter, when I was tempted to wash my hands of you altogether. You must go your own way. I was helpless to restrain you. All I asked was some little respite from worry, from the perpetual wear and tear of concealing these wretched stories from your father.’ ‘Thank you. I understand,’ Hartover said. ‘And so, other plans for wrecking me having miscarried—you and Jack Esdaile devised a good many—you connived at this abomination, just as you connived at—at—her running after me at Hover long ago, before Brownlow came. You encouraged her going to see me when I was ill—she told me so herself, told me that and a lot more too. And⸺’ He paused, leaning forward, looking on the ground, while his speech grew thick and unsteady. ‘And the fact—however vile the deception she practised on me—that she was kind, nursed me, helped me fight against my bad habits, pulled me through, does not lessen your guilt by one iota either towards her or towards me. Her death lies at your door. Marsigli, poor brute, may have struck the actual blow, but you are responsible for it.’ ‘Death? Fédore dead?—Marsigli?—What do you mean, George? What, in heaven’s name, are you talking about?’ In her extreme excitement and agitation Lady Longmoor seized the boy by the arm; but he shook himself free, getting up and backing away from her with a movement of uncontrollable revolt. ‘Oh! yes,’ he said; ‘I know you’ve wanted—you’ve wanted for years to finish with me, to wipe me out. You’ve failed; but—but still, at the cost of a life. Explain to her, Brownlow, please. Tell her. It’s beyond me. I can’t.’ CHAPTER XL.