Her guests sat in silence, occupied with their own reflections, while they heard a summons at the door of the house. It was opened, and footsteps approached the door of their own room. It was pushed partly open, as a voice on the other side said, speaking to a servant without,—
"Very well. Do not disturb your lady, I am in no haste."
At the sound of its well known tones, both the ladies almost sprang from their seats. Here could be no resemblance, and a moment removed their doubts. The speaker entered. It was Denbigh.
He stood for a moment fixed as a statue. It was evident the surprise was mutual. His face was pale as death, and then instantly was succeeded by a glow of fire. Approaching them, he paid his compliments with great earnestness, and in a voice in which his softest tones preponderated.
"I am happy, very happy, to be so fortunate in again meeting with such friends, and so unexpectedly."
Mrs. "Wilson bowed in silence to his compliment, and Emily, pale as himself, sat with her eyes fastened on the carpet, without daring to trust her voice with an attempt to speak.
After struggling with his mortified feelings for a moment, Denbigh rose from the chair he had taken, and drawing near the sofa on which the ladies were placed, exclaimed with fervor,—
"Tell me, dear madam, lovely, too lovely Miss Moseley, has one act of folly, of wickedness if you please, lost me your good opinion forever? Derwent had given me hopes that you yet retained some esteem for my character, lowered, as I acknowledge it to be, in my own estimation."
"The Duke of Derwent? Mr. Denbigh!"
"Do not, do not use a name, dear madam, almost hateful to me," cried he, in a tone of despair.
"If," said Mrs. Wilson, gravely, "you have made your own name disreputable, I can only regret it, but"—
"Call me by my title—oh! do not remind me of my folly; I cannot bear it, and from you."
