e both bitter reason to regret--the day when Geoffrey
Delamayn sent you to see me at the inn at Craig Fernie.

"You may possibly not remember--it unhappily produced no impression
on you at the time--that I felt, and expressed, more than once on that
occasion, a very great dislike to your passing me off on the people of
the inn as your wife. It was necessary to my being permitted to remain
at Craig Fernie that you should do so. I knew this; but still I shrank
from it. It was impossible for me to contradict you, without involving
you in the painful consequences, and running the risk of making a
scandal which might find its way to Blanche's ears. I knew this also;
but still my conscience reproached me. It was a vague feeling. I was
quite unaware of the actual danger in which you were placing yourself,
or I would have spoken out, no matter what came of it. I had what is
called a presentiment that you were not acting discreetly--nothing
more. As I love and honor my mother's memory--as I trust in the mercy of
God--this is the truth.

"You left the inn the next morning, and we have not met since.

"A few days after you went away my anxieties grew more than I could bear
alone. I went secretly to Windygates, and had an interview with Blanche.

"She was absent for a few minutes from the room in which we had met.
In that interval I saw Geoffrey Delamayn for the first time since I
had left him at Lady Lundie's lawn-party. He treated me as if I was a
stranger. He told me that he had found out all that had passed between
us at the inn. He said he had taken a lawyer's opinion. Oh, Mr.
Brinkworth! how can I break it to you? how can I write the words which
repeat what he said to me next? It must be done. Cruel as it is, it
must be done. He refused to my face to marr y me. He said I was married
already. He said I was your wife.

"Now you know why I have referred you to what I felt (and confessed
to feeling) when we were together at Craig Fernie. If you think hard
thoughts, and say hard words of me, I can claim no right to blame you. I
am innocent--and yet it is my fault.

"My head swims, and the foolish tears are rising in spite of me. I must
leave off, and rest a little.

"I have been sitting at the window, and watching the people in the
street as they go by. They are all strangers. But, somehow, the sight
of them seems to rest my mind. The hum of the great city gives me heart,
and helps me to go on.

"I can not trust myself to