“What!” he cried, with a look of dismay upon his pale face. “Are you really leaving, nurse?”

“Yes, Lord Bracondale. I have already sent my things back to the convent. I have come to wish you good-bye.”

“To wish me good-bye!” he echoed blankly, looking her straight in the face. “How can I ever thank you—how can I ever repay you for all your kindness, care, and patience with me? Sir Evered says that I owe my life to your good nursing.”

She smiled.

“I think Sir Evered is merely paying me an undeserved compliment,” was her modest reply.

He had taken her small, white hand in his, and for a moment he stood mute before her, overcome with gratitude.

“Sir Evered has spoken the truth, Nurse Jean,” he said. “I know it, and you yourself know it. In all these weeks we have been together we have begun to know each other, we have been companions, and—and you have many a time cheered me when I felt in blank despair.”

“I am very pleased if I have been able to bring you happiness,” she replied. “It is sometimes difficult to infuse gaiety into a sick-room.”

“But you have brought me new life, new hope, new light into my dull, careworn life,” he declared quickly. “Since I found you at my bedside I have become a different man.”

“How?” she asked, very seriously.

“You have inspired in me new hopes, new aspirations—and a fresh ambition.”

“Of what?”

He raised her ungloved hand and kissed it fervently.

She tried to snatch it away, but he held it fast, and, looking into her dark, startled eyes, replied:

“Of making you my wife, Jean.”

“Your wife!” she gasped, her face pale in an instant, as she drew back, astounded at the suggestion.

“Yes. Listen to me!” he cried, quickly, still holding her hand, and drawing her to him as he stepped into the huge room upholstered with pale blue silk. “This is no sudden fancy on my part, Jean. I have watched you—watched you for days and weeks—for gradually I came to know how deeply attached I had become to you—that I love you!”

“No, no!” she exclaimed. “Let me go, please, Lord Bracondale! This is madness. I refuse to hear you. Reflect—and you will see that I can never become your wife!”

And upon her sweet face there spread a hard, pained expression.

“But I repeat, Jean—I swear it—I love you!” he said. “I again repeat my question—Will you honour me by becoming my wife? Can you ever love me sufficiently to sacrifice yourself? And will you try and love me—will you——”

“I cannot bear it!” she cried, struggling to free herself from his strong embrace, while he held her hand and again passionately raised it to his lips. “Please recall those words. They are injudicious, to say the least.”

“I have spoken the plain truth. I love you!”

Her eyes were downcast. She stood against a large, silk-covered settee, her hand touching the silken covering, her chest heaving and falling in deep emotion, so unprepared had she been for the Earl’s declaration of affection.

Through her mind, however, one thought ran—the difference in their social status; he—a Cabinet Minister; and she—the widow of a thief!

Recollection of that hideous chapter of her life flashed upon her, and she shuddered.

Bracondale noticed that she shivered, but, ignorant of the reason, only drew her closer to him.

“Tell me, Jean,” he whispered. “May I hope? Now that you are leaving, I cannot bear that you should go out of my life for ever. I am no young lover, full of flowery speeches, but I love you as fervently, as ardently, as any man has ever loved a woman; and if you will be mine I will endeavour to make you contented and happy to all the extent I am able.”

“But, Lord Bracondale,” she protested, raising her fine eyes to his, “I am unworthy—I——”

“You are worthy, Jean,” he declared, earnestly. “You are the only woman in all my life that I have loved. For all these years I have been a bachelor, self-absorbed in the affairs of the nation, in politics and diplomacy, until, by my accident, I have suddenly realised that there is still something more in the world to live for higher than the position I hold as a member of the Cabinet—the love of a good woman, and you are that woman. Tell me,” he urged, speaking in a low whisper as he bent to her, “tell me—may I hope?”

Slowly she disengaged the hand he held, and drew it across her white brow beneath her velvet hat.

“I—I—ah! no, Lord Bracondale,” she cried. “This is all very unwise. You would soon regret.”

“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 assure 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 assurance 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 circumstances 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 passion 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.