and overcame. Then--strong, hardened, lonely; a man grown
to man's full heritage of self-contained independence--he met you, Myra.
His ideals returned, purified and strengthened by their passage through
the fire. Love came, now, in such gigantic force, that the pigmy passion
of early youth was dwarfed and superseded. It seemed a new and untasted
experience such as he had not dreamed life could contain. Three weeks of
it, he had; growing in certainty, increasing in richness, every day; yet
tempered by the patient waiting your pleasure, for eagerly expected
fulfilment. Then the blow--so terrible to his sensibilities and to his
manly pride; the horrible knowledge that his own hand had brought loss
and sorrow to you, whom he would have shielded from the faintest shadow
of pain. Then his mistake in allowing false pride to come between you.
Three weeks of growing hunger and regret, followed by your summons, which
seemed to promise happiness after all; for, remember while _you_ had been
bringing yourself to acquiesce in his decision as absolutely final, so
that the news of Lord Ingleby's return meant no loss to you and to him,
merely the relief of his exculpation, _he_ had been coming round to a
more reasonable point of view, and realising that, after all, he had not
lost you. You sent for him, and he came--once more aglow with love and
certainty--only to hear that he had not only lost you himself, but must
leave you to another man. Oh Myra! Can you not make allowance for a
moment of fierce madness? Can you not see that the very strength of the
man momentarily turned in the wrong direction, brought about his
downfall? You tell me you called him coward and traitor? You might as
well have struck him! Such words from your lips must have been worse than
blows. I admit he deserved them; yet Saint Peter was thrice a coward and
a traitor, but his Lord, making allowance for a sudden yielding to
temptation, did not doubt the loyalty of his love, but gave him a chance
of threefold public confession, and forgave him. If Divine Love could do
this--oh, Myra, can _you_ let your lover go out into the world again,
alone, without one word of forgiveness?"

"How do I know he wants my forgiveness, Jane? He left me in a towering
fury. And how could my forgiveness reach him, even supposing he desired
it, or I could give it? Where is he now?"

"He left you in despair," said Mrs. Dalmain, "and--he is in the
library."

Lady Ingleby rose to her fee