his wife? They would doubtless think so,
whether she did or not. She had no illusions in the matter. Not one of
them would forgive her--not even Mrs. Hartley--for her treatment of
Brooke Dalton, for her independent action since she left Italy, and for
her association with Alan Walcott.

As for that--it was true that she had not yet gone too far. She had not
coupled her name with Alan's in any public manner, or in any way at all,
except that she had used her own name when calling on Captain Haynes. He
would not talk, and, therefore, it was not too late to act with greater
secrecy and caution. She need not let anyone know that she had taken an
interest in him, that she had been to his prison, and had promised to
bring him away when he was released. Beyond that point of bringing him
away she had not yet advanced, even in her own mind. What was to prevent
her from sending a carriage, as though it had been provided by Aunt
Bessy, and letting him find his way to Birchmead, or wherever he wished
to go, like any other discharged prisoner. Then she would not shock her
friends--she would not outrage the feelings of poor Sydney, who thought
so much of the world's opinion and of the name they held in common.

That was a strong argument with her, for, to some extent, she
sympathized with her brother's ambitions, although she did not greatly
esteem them. She would do all that she could to avoid hurting him. How
much could she do? Was it possible for her now, when she was calm and
collected, to form a strong resolution and draw a clear line beyond
which she would not let her pity for Alan Walcott carry her? What she
thought right, that she would do--no more, but certainly no less. Then
what was right?

There was the difficulty. Within the limits of a good conscience, she
had been guided almost entirely by her feelings, and they had led her so
straight that she had never been prompted to ask herself such questions
as What is right? or What is the proper thing to do? She had done good
by intuition and nature; and now it was out of her power to realize any
other or stronger obligation than that of acting as nature bade her. One
thing only was plain to her at the moment--that she must be kind to this
man who had been persecuted, betrayed, and unjustly punished, and who,
but for her, would be absolutely alone in the world. Could she be kind
without going to meet him at the prison gates?

She was trying to persuade herself that she coul