!

"You asking for forgiveness? How you must despise me."

"Why should I despise you? You have never said a word to me that any
friend, any near friend, might not have said, never since I myself, in
my folly, forbade you to. You were not bound to tell me--"

"I had told your grandfather," Waymark said in a broken voice. "In a
letter I wrote the very day he was taken ill, I begged him to let you
know that I had bound myself."

As he spoke he knew that he was excusing himself with a truth which
implied a falsehood, and before it was too late his soul revolted
against the unworthiness.

"But it was my own fault that it was left so long. I would not let him
tell you when he wished to; I put off the day as long as I could."

"Since you first knew me?" she asked, in a low voice.

"No! Since you came to live here. I was free before."

It was the part of his confession which cost him most to utter, and the
hearing of it chilled Ida's heart. Whilst she had been living through
her bitterest shame and misery, he had given his love to another woman,
forgetful of her. For the first time, weakness overcame her.

"I thought you loved me," she sobbed, bowing her head.

"I did--and I do. I can't understand myself, and it would be worse than
vain to try to show you how it came about. I have brought a curse upon
my life, and worse than my own despair is your misery."

"Is she a good woman you are going to marry?" Ida asked simply and
kindly.

"Only less noble than yourself."

"And she loves you--no, she cannot love as I do--but she loves you
worthily and with all her soul?"

"Worthily and with all her soul--the greater my despair."

"Then I dare not think of her one unkind thought. We must remember her,
and be strong for her sake. You will leave London and forget me
soon,--yes, yes, you will _try_ to forget me. You owe it to her; it is
your duty."

"Duty!" he broke out passionately. "What have I to do with duty? Was it
not my duty to be true to you? Was it not my duty to confess my hateful
weakness, when I had taken the fatal step? Duty has no meaning for me.
I have set it aside at every turn. Even now there would be no
obligation on me to keep my word, but that I am too great a coward to
revoke it."

She stood near to him.

"Dear,--I will call you so, it is for the last time,--you think these
things in the worst moment of our suffering; afterwards you will thank
me for having been strong enough, or cold enough, to