much," she continued,
nervously twisting her handkerchief between her fingers.

"I'll come home with pleasure," Rochester interrupted. "Don't look so
scared," he added, patting the back of her hand gently. "You know very
well, if there is any little trouble, I shall be delighted to help you
out."

She did not remove her hand, but she looked out of the window. What
she wanted to say seemed harder than ever. And after all, was it worth
while? It would mean giving up a very agreeable side to life. It would
mean--Her thoughts suddenly changed their course. Once more she was
sitting upon that very uncomfortable bench in the great city hall.
Once more she felt that curious new sensation, some answering
vibration in her heart to the wonderful, passionate words which were
bringing tears to the eyes not only of the women, but of the men, by
whom she was surrounded. No, it was not an art, this--a trick! No
acting was great enough to have touched the hearts of all this time
and sin-hardened multitude. It was the truth--simply the truth.

"It isn't exactly a little thing, Henry. I'll tell you about it when
we get home."

* * * * *

No, it was no little thing, Rochester thought to himself, as he stood
upon the hearthrug of her boudoir, and listened to the woman who sat
on the end of the sofa a few feet away as she talked to him. Sometimes
her eyes were raised to his--eyes whose color seemed more beautiful
because of the tears in them. Sometimes her head was almost buried in
her hands. But she talked all the time--an odd, disconnected sort of
monologue, half confession, half appeal. There was little in it which
seemed of any great moment, and yet to Rochester it was as though he
were face to face with a tragedy. This woman was asking him much!

"I know so well," she said, "what a useless, frivolous, miserable sort
of life mine has been, and I know so well that I haven't made the
least attempt, Henry, to be a good wife to you. That wasn't altogether
my fault, was it?" she asked pleadingly. "Do tell me that."

"It was not your fault at all," he answered gravely. "It was part of
our arrangement."

"I am afraid," she said, "that it was a very unholy, a very wicked
arrangement, only you see I was badly brought up, and it seemed to me
so natural, such an excellent way of providing a good time for myself,
to marry you, and to owe you nothing except one thing. Henry, you will
believe this, I know. I