her with her than any of the nurses? And then she died, and of course that altered everything."
Lady Wargrave sat as if carved out of stone, her eyes still upon the bleak face of the invalid. "Is that all?" she said.
"No, it is not. There's more to tell."
"Tell it then so that we may have done with it." Charlotte's voice quivered.
"Very well, since you insist." The softness of the tone was surprising, yet to Charlotte it said nothing. "Rachel died and everything, as I say, was altered. 'Man Donald's' daughter became the only woman who ever really meant anything to me. Somehow I felt I couldn't do without her. And to make an end of a long and tedious story, finally I married her."
"You married her!" Lady Wargrave sat as if she had swallowed a poker.
"Yes, but before doing so I made a condition. Things were to go on as they were, provided. . . ."
". . . provided!" Excitement fought curiosity in Charlotte's angry voice.
". . . she didn't bring a boy into the world."
"I'm afraid I don't understand." Charlotte's voice cracked in the middle.
"It was quite a simple arrangement, and in the circumstances it seemed the best. So long as there was no man child to complicate the thing unduly, the world was to be kept out of our secret. At the time it seemed wise and right to do that. Otherwise it would have meant a fearful upset for everybody."
"Is one to understand," gasped Charlotte, "that when Rachel died you actually married this—this woman?"
