t yet, not
yet--you must not ask me.'

Mark knew now that the decisive moment had come: there was only one
way left of moving her; there was no time to lose if he meant to take
it.

Must he speak the words which would banish him from his wife's heart
for ever, just when hope had returned to his life, just when he had
begun to feel himself worthier of her love? It was so easy to say no
more, to leave her in her error, and the shadow would pass away, and
his happiness be secure. But could he be sure of that? The spectre had
risen so many times to mock him, would it ever be finally laid? And if
Mabel learnt the truth when it was too late?--no, he could not bear to
think of what would happen then?

And yet how was he to begin--in what words could he break it to her?
His heart died within him at the duty before him, and he sat in the
firelit room, tortured with indecision, and his good and bad angel
fought for him. And then, all at once, almost in spite of himself, the
words came:

'Mabel,' he cried, 'Holroyd has done nothing--do you hear?--nothing to
call for forgiveness ... oh, if you could understand without my saying
more!'

She started, and her voice had an accent, first of a new hope, then of
a great fear.

'Is Vincent better than he seemed? But how can that be if--tell me,
Mark, tell me everything.'

Mark shrank back; he dared not tell her.

'Not now,' he groaned. 'My God! what am I doing? Mabel, I can't tell
you; have pity on yourself--on me!'

She rose and came to him. 'If you have anything to tell me, tell me
now,' she said. 'I am quite strong; it will not hurt me. You must not
leave me in this uncertainty--_that_ will kill me! Mark, if you love
me, I entreat you to save me from being unjust to Vincent. Remember,
he is dying--you have told me so!'

He rose and went to the sideboard; there was water there, and he
poured some out and drank it before he could speak. Then he came back
to the fireplace, and leaned against the mantelboard.

'You will hate me before I have finished,' he said at last, 'but I
will tell you.'

And then he began, and painfully, with frequent breaks and nervous
hurrying at certain passages, he told her everything--the whole story
of his own shame and of Holroyd's devotion. He did not spare himself;
he did not even care to give such excuses as might have been made for
him in the earlier stages of his fraud. If his atonement was late, it
was at least a full one.

She listened