worked
was only a mockery; even if it had been real, it was only a veneer of
reformation, so thin that it had failed him when she refused to hold
further intercourse with him. She wondered whether she really loved him,
else why could she think of his death so calmly? Her heart was very
sore, and she felt stunned by the news of his death, yet she was able to
think quite clearly and collectedly.

She read the paragraph concerning Leicester again. She supposed that
there could be no doubt that it was he. The name upon the handkerchief,
the letter addressed to him--no, there could be no doubt. Perhaps in a
day or so the English newspapers would contain further news about him.
There would, of course, be an inquest, and then the circumstantial
evidence would be tested; but of course he was dead.

Suddenly the remembrance of their last interview came back to her. He
had reminded her of her promise never to marry another man, no matter
what might happen. She remembered the reply she had made, too. It was as
bitter and as cruel as she could make it, and she called to mind the
look on his face when she had spoken. Nevertheless she _had_ promised
never to marry another man. But it did not matter. She would never want
to marry; the thought of such a thing was repugnant. She wished she
could cry, but her eyes were dry; she wished she had some feeling of
tenderness in her heart; but she had none. She was cold and calm;
indeed, she seemed to be past feeling. If she felt anything at all, it
was anger. Even yet she was angry that her picture had been exhibited at
the political meeting at Taviton, and that she should be spoken about by
a man who a few minutes afterwards fell on the platform in drunken
helplessness. Why was it? Surely Leicester's death should have destroyed
any such feelings. He had atoned now for all he had done.

A minute later a knock came to the door, and she heard her father's
voice.

"Olive, may I come in?"

"Yes, father; what is it?"

John Castlemaine came in, and she saw the moment he entered that he had
something of importance to tell her.

"When would you like to go back to England, Olive?" he said.

"I don't know," she said. Somehow her interest in returning home had
evaporated since the news of Leicester's death.

"I don't mean to The Beeches, Olive."

"Where, then?"

He sat down beside her, and took a letter from his pocket.

"As you know, Olive, I have little by little taken a less active par