re, she had thought of his coming, and of the sweetness of
weeping out her pain upon his breast. Of course she had meant to clear
herself of its consequences before she met him--she had never really
doubted that Mrs. Peniston would come to her aid. And she had felt, even
in the full storm of her misery, that Selden's love could not be her
ultimate refuge; only it would be so sweet to take a moment's shelter
there, while she gathered fresh strength to go on.

But now his love was her only hope, and as she sat alone with her
wretchedness the thought of confiding in him became as seductive as the
river's flow to the suicide. The first plunge would be terrible--but
afterward, what blessedness might come! She remembered Gerty's words: "I
know him--he will help you"; and her mind clung to them as a sick person
might cling to a healing relic. Oh, if he really understood--if he would
help her to gather up her broken life, and put it together in some new
semblance in which no trace of the past should remain! He had always made
her feel that she was worthy of better things, and she had never been in
greater need of such solace. Once and again she shrank at the thought of
imperilling his love by her confession: for love was what she needed--it
would take the glow of passion to weld together the shattered fragments
of her self-esteem. But she recurred to Gerty's words and held fast to
them. She was sure that Gerty knew Selden's feeling for her, and it had
never dawned upon her blindness that Gerty's own judgment of him was
coloured by emotions far more ardent than her own.

Four o'clock found her in the drawing-room: she was sure that Selden
would be punctual. But the hour came and passed--it moved on feverishly,
measured by her impatient heart-beats. She had time to take a fresh
survey of her wretchedness, and to fluctuate anew between the impulse to
confide in Selden and the dread of destroying his illusions. But as the
minutes passed the need of throwing herself on his comprehension became
more urgent: she could not bear the weight of her misery alone. There
would be a perilous moment, perhaps: but could she not trust to her
beauty to bridge it over, to land her safe in the shelter of his devotion?

But the hour sped on and Selden did not come. Doubtless he had been
detained, or had misread her hurriedly scrawled note, taking the four for
a five. The ringing of the door-bell a few minutes after five confirmed
this supposition,