n which he knew that she was immured. And,
even had it been impossible that he should come to her, the post was
open to him. She had scorned to write to him oftener than he would
write to her, and now their correspondence had dwindled almost to
nothing. He knew as well as did Lady Fawn when the period of her
incarceration in Lady Linlithgow's dungeon would come to an end; and
he knew, too, how great had been her hope that she might be accepted
as a guest at the deanery when that period should arrive. He knew
that she must look for a new home, unless he would tell her where
she should live. Was it likely,--was it possible, that he should be
silent so long if he still intended to make her his wife? No doubt he
had come to remember his debts, to remember his ambition, to think of
his cousin's wealth,--and to think also of his cousin's beauty. What
right had she ever had to hope for such a position as that of his
wife,--she who had neither money nor beauty,--she who had nothing
to give him in return for his name and the shelter of his house
beyond her mind and her heart? As she thought of it all, she looked
down upon her faded grey frock, and stood up that she might glance
at her features in the glass; and she saw how small she was and
insignificant, and reminded herself that all she had in the world
was a few pounds which she had saved and was still saving in order
that she might go to him with decent clothes upon her back. Was it
reasonable that she should expect it?

But why had he come to her and made her thus wretched? She could
acknowledge to herself that she had been foolish, vain, utterly
ignorant of her own value in venturing to hope; perhaps unmaidenly in
allowing it to be seen that she had hoped;--but what was he in having
first exalted her before all her friends, and then abasing her so
terribly and bringing her to such utter shipwreck? From spoken or
written reproaches she could, of course, abstain. She would neither
write nor speak any;--but from unuttered reproaches how could she
abstain? She had called him a traitor once in playful, loving irony,
during those few hours in which her love had been to her a luxury
that she could enjoy. But now he was a traitor indeed. Had he left
her alone she would have loved him in silence, and not have been
wretched in her love. She would, she knew, in that case, have had
vigour enough and sufficient strength of character to bear her
burthen without outward signs of sufferi