ole scheme she
should never know.

'I was indifferent to my own future,' Edward said, 'and was urged to
promise adherence to my engagement with my cousin Adelaide by Miss
Aldclyffe: now you are married I cannot tell you how, but it was on
account of my father. Being forbidden to think of you, what did I care
about anything? My new thought that you still loved me was first raised
by what my father said in the letter announcing my cousin's marriage. He
said that although you were to be married on Old Christmas Day--that
is to-morrow--he had noticed your appearance with pity: he thought
you loved me still. It was enough for me--I came down by the earliest
morning train, thinking I could see you some time to-day, the day, as I
thought, before your marriage, hoping, but hardly daring to hope, that
you might be induced to marry me. I hurried from the station; when I
reached the village I saw idlers about the church, and the private gate
leading to the House open. I ran into the church by the small door and
saw you come out of the vestry; I was too late. I have now told you.
I was compelled to tell you. O, my lost darling, now I shall live
content--or die content!'

'I am to blame, Edward, I am,' she said mournfully; 'I was taught to
dread pauperism; my nights were made sleepless; there was continually
reiterated in my ears till I believed it--

'"The world and its ways have a certain worth,
And to press a point where these oppose
Were a simple policy."

'But I will say nothing about who influenced--who persuaded. The act
is mine, after all. Edward, I married to escape dependence for my bread
upon the whim of Miss Aldclyffe, or others like her. It was clearly
represented to me that dependence is bearable if we have another place
which we can call home; but to be a dependent and to have no other spot
for the heart to anchor upon--O, it is mournful and harassing!... But
that without which all persuasion would have been as air, was added by
my miserable conviction that you were false; that did it, that turned
me! You were to be considered as nobody to me, and Mr. Manston was
invariably kind. Well, the deed is done--I must abide by it. I shall
never let him know that I do not love him--never. If things had only
remained as they seemed to be, if you had really forgotten me and
married another woman, I could have borne it better. I wish I did not
know the truth as I know it now! But our life, what is it? Let