os lying in the fact that its writer shunned all attempt to be
pathetic. 'Now that I know the truth,' he said, 'I can only ask your
pardon for the thoughts I had of you; you have not wronged me, and I
can have no ill-feeling against you. If Thyrza is ever your wife, I
hope your happiness may be hers. As for the other things, do not
reproach yourself. You wished to befriend me, and I think I was not
unworthy of it. Few things in life turn out as we desire; to have done
one's best with a good intention is much to look back upon--very few
have more.'

Gilbert did not show this letter to Lydia, nor had he told her of what
he had learnt in the conversation with Egremont. The fear would have
seemed more intolerable if he had uttered it. But the hope which
supported him was proof against even such a danger as this. To his mind
there was something unnatural in a union between Egremont and Thyrza;
try as he would, he could not realise it as having come to pass. The
two were parted by so vast a social distinction, and, let Nature say
what it will, the artificialities of life are wont to prevail. He could
imagine an unpermitted bond between them, with the necessary end in
Thyrza's sacrifice to the world's injustice; but their marriage
appeared to him among the things so unlikely as to be in practice
impossible. Of course the wish was father to the thought. But he
reasoned upon the hope which would not abandon him. Thyrza had again
and again proved the extreme sensitiveness of her nature; she could not
bear to inflict pain. He remembered how she had once come back after
saying good-night, because it seemed to her that she had spoken with
insufficient kindness. The instance was typical. And now, though
tempted by every motive that can tempt a woman, she had abandoned
herself to unimagined trials rather than seek her own welfare at
another's expense. To fulfil her promise had been beyond her power,
but, if there must be suffering, she would share it. And now, in that
wretched exile, he knew that self-pity could not absorb her. She would
think of him constantly, and of such thought would come compassion and
repentance. Those feelings might bring her back. If only she came back,
it was enough. She could not undo what she had done, but neither could
she forbid him to live with eyes on the future.

Reasoning so, he did his daily work and lived waiting.

Then came the day which put a term to the mere blank of desolation, and
excited ne