ould to God he had not, she thought.

There were other things besides his crime of forgery which had acted far
more powerfully upon Mary Goddard's mind, and which had broken for ever
all ties of affection; circumstances which had appeared during his trial
and which had shown that he had not only been unfaithful to those who
trusted him, but had been unfaithful to the wife who loved him. That was
what she could not forgive; it was the memory of that which rose like an
impassable wall between her and him, worse than his frauds, his forgery,
worse almost than his murder. He had done that which even a loving woman
could not pardon, that which was past all forgiveness. That was why his
sudden appearance roused no tender memories, elicited seemingly so little
sympathy from her. She was too good a woman to say it, but she knew in
her heart that she wished him dead, the very possibility of ever seeing
him again gone from her life for ever, no matter how.

But she must see him again, nevertheless, and to-morrow. To-morrow, too,
she would have to meet the squire, and appear to act and talk as though
nothing had happened in this terrible night. That would be the hardest of
all, perhaps; even harder than meeting her husband for a brief moment in
order to give him the means of escape. She felt that in helping him she
was participating in his crimes, and yet, she asked herself, what woman
would have acted differently? What woman, even though she might hate her
husband with her whole soul, and justly, would yet be so hard-hearted as
to refuse him assistance when he was flying for his life? It would be
impossible. She must help him at any cost; but it was hard to feel that
she must see the squire and behave with indifference, while her husband
was lurking in the neighbourhood, when a detective might at any moment
come to the door, and demand to search the house.

These thoughts passed very quickly through her overwrought brain, as she
knelt in the passage; kneeling because she felt she could no longer
stand, the passionate tears streaming down her face, her small hands
pressing her temples. Then she struggled to her feet and dried her eyes,
steadying herself against the wall for a moment. She had almost forgotten
little Nellie whom she had left in the drawing-room. She had told the
child, when she went back to her, leaving Goddard alone in the dark, that
the man was a poor starving tramp, but that she did not want Nellie to
see him, b