elf says"--and
poor Louisa's complaint grew into pathos under the subliming force of
her advocate's sympathy--"that she would be like a widow, and worse
than a widow. I am not the man to bid you suppress your convictions
because they will be your ruin, in the common sense of the word; but,
Gerald--your wife--"

Gerald had bent his head down upon his clasped hands; sometimes a
great heave of his frame showed the last struggle that was going on
within him--a struggle more painful, more profound, than anything that
had gone before. And the voice of the Curate, who, like his brother,
was nothing if not a priest, was choked, and painful with the force
of his emotion. He drew his breath hard between his words: it was not
an argument, but an admonition; an appeal, not from a brother only,
but from one who spoke with authority, as feeling himself accredited
from God. He drew closer towards the voluntary martyr beside him, the
humbleness of his reverential love for his elder brother mingling in
that voice of the priest, which was natural to him, and which he did
not scruple to adopt. "Gerald,--your wife," he said, in softened but
firm tones, laying his hand on his brother's arm. And it was at this
moment, when in his heart he felt that his influence might be of some
avail, and when all the powers of his mind were gathering to bear upon
this last experiment, that the door opened suddenly, and poor Louisa,
all flushed and tearful, in womanish hot impatience and misery that
knew no prudence, burst, without any warning, into the room.

"I can't bear it any longer," cried the poor wife. "I knew you were
talking it all over, and deciding what it was to be; and when one's
life is hanging on a chance, how can one keep quiet and not interfere?
Oh, Gerald, Gerald! I have been a true wife to you. I know I am not
clever; but I would have died to do you any good. You are not going to
forsake me!" cried poor Louisa, going up to him and putting her arms
round him. "I said Frank was to tell you everything, but a man can
never tell what is in a woman's heart. Oh, Gerald, why should you go
and kill me! I will never oppose you any more; whatever you want, I
will give in to it as freely as if it were my own way. I will make
_that_ my own way, Gerald, if you will only listen to me. Whatever
changes you please, oh Gerald, I will never say a word, nor your
father, nor any one! If the Bishop should interfere, we would all
stand up for you. There is n