eal' he called it, requiring not only zeal but nerve, which might
possibly, were my courage to fail, become frightful, and even intolerable.
What, and of what nature, could it be? Not designed to vindicate the fair
fame of the meek and submissive old man--who, it seemed, had ceased to care
for his bygone wrongs, and was looking to futurity--but the reputation of
our ancient family.

Sometimes I repented my temerity in having undertaken it. I distrusted my
courage. Had I not better retreat, while it was yet time? But there was
shame and even difficulty in the thought. How should I appear before my
father? Was it not important--had I not deliberately undertaken it--and was
I not bound in conscience? Perhaps he had already taken steps in the matter
which committed _him_. Besides, was I sure that, even were I free again, I
would not once more devote myself to the trial, be it what it might?
You perceive I had more spirit than courage. I think I had the mental
attributes of courage; but then I was but a hysterical girl, and in so far
neither more nor less than a coward.

No wonder I distrusted myself; no wonder also my will stood out against
my timidity. It was a struggle, then; a proud, wild resolve against
constitutional cowardice.

Those who have ever had cast upon them more than their strength
seemed framed to bear--the weak, the aspiring, the adventurous and
self-sacrificing in will, and the faltering in nerve--will understand the
kind of agony which I sometimes endured.

But, again, consolation would come, and it seemed to me that I must be
exaggerating my risk in the coming crisis; and certain at least, if my
father believed it attended with real peril, he would never have wished
to see me involved in it. But the silence under which I was bound was
terrifying--double so when the danger was so shapeless and undivulged.

I was soon to understand it all--soon, too, to know all about my father's
impending journey, whither, with what visitor, and why guarded from me with
so awful a mystery.

That day there came a lively and goodnatured letter from Lady Knollys. She
was to arrive at Knowl in two or three days' time. I thought my father
would have been pleased, but he seemed apathetic and dejected.

'One does not always feel quite equal to Monica. But for you--yes, thank
God. I wish she could only stay, Maud, for a month or two; I may be going
then, and would be glad--provided she talks about suitable things--very
gla