"
While his sister was reading this letter, Hardyman had made his way to
Isabel's chair. "I must speak to you, directly," he whispered. "Come
away with me!" He turned, as he took her arm, and looked at the table.
"Where is my letter?" he asked. Mrs. Drumblade handed it to him,
dexterously crumpled up again as she had found it. "No bad news, dear
Alfred, I hope?" she said, in her most affectionate manner. Hardyman
snatched the letter from her, without answering, and led Isabel out of
the tent.
"Read that!" he said, when they were alone. "And tell me at once whether
it's true or false."
Isabel read the letter. For a moment the shock of the discovery held her
speechless. She recovered herself, and returned the letter.
"It is true," she answered.
Hardyman staggered back as if she had shot him.
"True that you are guilty?" he asked.
"No; I am innocent. Everybody who knows me believes in my innocence.
It is true the appearances were against me. They are against me still."
Having said this, she waited, quietly and firmly, for his next words.
He passed his hand over his forehead with a sigh of relief. "It's bad
enough as it is," he said, speaking quietly on his side. "But the remedy
for it is plain enough. Come back to the tent."
She never moved. "Why?" she asked.
"Do you suppose I don't believe in your innocence too?" he answered.
"The one way of setting you right with the world now is for me to make
you my wife, in spite of the appearances that point to you.
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