nows he is mine. I trust her--I must trust her--I will pray for
strength to trust her. Heaven help me!--Heaven help me!"

A terrible pang of jealousy smote her. Detesting herself for it, she
tried hard to repress the flood of bitter hatred she felt rising in her
against Lady Lakeden. Poor Lady Lakeden! She had suffered enough and was
blameless. She could not help it if Wyndham loved her.

An overwhelming curiosity to know what manner of woman Lady Lakeden was,
took possession of her. Of course, she was young and beautiful. But what
colour were her eyes? Were they large and deep and brilliant? What
expression had she habitually? What colour was her hair? And was it
abundant? And how arranged? Was she slim and tall? How did she dress?
And in what costume was Wyndham painting her? Were not these the
questions that had been a thousand times on her lips, and yet remained
unuttered?

And why had she not asked of him these questions as clearly and boldly
as she had thought them? Had there been some obscure suspicion in her
mind all along, and she had feared to embarrass her affianced husband?

Poor Wyndham! She told herself she had the most perfect understanding of
his mind. She held him in honour as a noble gentleman, and knew surely
that he would fret his heart away rather than wound her by word or deed.
She would have put her hand in the fire for the certainty that he would
never withdraw from the compact; that he would go through with the
marriage, and die rather than relax the effort to simulate perfect
happiness in their after life.

Could she accept such a sacrifice? Could she spoil his life for him,
when she had only meant to set it straight, and had asked for no greater
privilege? Would that she had been able, by some miracle, to help him
from across the old impassable distance without coming into his life at
all! It was for her to choose--to keep him and all that the future with
him might hold, or to tell him frankly that she thought it best to set
him free and return to the simple paths of her old existence.

But, ah, no, she could not give him up--she could not give him up! She
had possessed his lips, she had possessed his thought and solicitude.
The echoes of his voice caressed her. Break with him! She shut her eyes
and shuddered again; her whole soul grew sick, and she writhed in
agony.

XXI

Calling one day and finding her alone in the drawing-room, Mr. Shanner,
after some moments of unruffled d