ou fell
in love with them. That was all."

"I tell you that I loved you," he answered with passionate energy. "But
as you will. Let it be that it was not real love: at least it was all
there was in me to give. I never meant to desert you. I never meant to
disavow our marriage. I denied you, you will say. I did. In the light of
what came after, it was dishonourable--I grant that; but I did it at a
crisis and for the fulfilment of a great ambition--and as much for you
as for me."

"That was the least of your evil work. But how little you know what true
people think or feel!" she answered with a kind of pain in her voice,
for she felt that such a nature could never even realise its own
enormities. Well, since it had gone so far she would speak openly,
though it hurt her sense of self-respect.

"For that matter, do you think that I or any good woman would have had
place or power, been princess or duchess, at the price? What sort of
mind have you?" She looked him straight in the eyes. "Put it in the
clear light of right and wrong, it was knavery. You--you talk of not
meaning to do me harm. You were never capable of doing me good. It was
not in you. From first to last you are untrue. Were it otherwise, were
you not from first to last unworthy, would you have--but no, your worst
crime need not be judged here. Yet had you one spark of worthiness
would you have made a mock marriage--it is no more--with the Comtesse
Chantavoine? No matter what I said or what I did in anger, or contempt
of you, had you been an honest man you would not have so ruined another
life. Marriage, alas! You have wronged the Comtesse worse than you have
wronged me. One day I shall be righted, but what can you say or do to
right her wrongs?"

Her voice had now a piercing indignation and force. "Yes, Philip
d'Avranche, it is as I say, justice will come to me. The world turned
against me because of you; I have been shamed and disgraced. For years
I have suffered in silence. But I have waited without fear for the end.
God is with me. He is stronger than fortune or fate. He has brought you
to Jersey once more, to right my wrongs, mine and my child's."

She saw his eyes flash to the little curtained bed. They both stood
silent and still. He could hear the child breathing. His blood
quickened. An impulse seized him. He took a step towards the bed, as
though to draw the curtain, but she quickly moved between.

"Never," she said in a low stern tone; "no touc