ich she herself could not pardon; and having done it, she
could not bring herself to accept the position which should have been
the reward of good conduct. She could not analyse the causes which
made her feel that she must still refuse the love that was proffered
to her; she could not clearly read her own thoughts; but the causes
were as I have said, and such was the true reading of her thoughts.
Had she simply refused his hand after she had once accepted it,--had
she refused it, and then again changed her mind, she could have
brought herself to ask him to forgive her. But she had done so much
more than this, and so much worse! She had affianced herself to
another man since she had belonged to him,--since she had been his,
as his future wife. What must he not think of her, and what not
suspect? Then she remembered those interviews which she had had with
her cousin since she had written to him, accepting his offer. When
he had been with her in Queen Anne Street she had shrunk from all
outward signs of a love which she did not feel. There had been no
caress between them. She had not allowed him to touch her with his
lips. But it was impossible that the nature of that mad engagement
between her and her cousin George should ever be made known to Mr
Grey. She sat there wiping the tears from her eyes as she looked for
his figure among the figures by the lake-side; but, as she sat there,
she promised herself no happiness from his coming. Oh! reader, can
you forgive her in that she had sinned against the softness of her
feminine nature? I think that she may be forgiven, in that she had
never brought herself to think lightly of her own fault.

If he were there, by the lake-side, she did not see him. I think we
may say that John Grey was not a man to console himself in his love
by looking up at his lady's candle. He was one who was capable of
doing as much as most men in the pursuit of his love,--as he proved
to be the case when he followed Alice to Cheltenham, and again to
London, and now again to Lucerne; but I doubt whether a glimmer from
her bedroom-window, had it been unmistakably her own glimmer, and not
that of some ugly old French woman who might chance to sleep next to
her, would have done him much good. He had come to Lucerne with a
purpose, which purpose, if it might be possible, he meant to carry
out; but I think he was already in bed, being tired with long travel,
before Lady Glencora had left Alice's room.

At bre