be convenient enough. Caroline Waddington
had once flattered herself that that heart of hers was merely a
blood-circulating instrument. But she had discovered her mistake, and
learned the truth before it was too late. She had known what it was
to love--and yet she had married Henry Harcourt! Seldom, indeed, will
punishment be so lame of foot as to fail in catching such a criminal
as she had been.

Punishment--bitter, cruel, remorseless punishment--had caught her
now, and held her tight within its grasp. He, too, had said that he
was wretched. But what could his wretchedness be to hers? He was
not married to a creature that he hated: he was not bound in a foul
Mezentian embrace to a being against whom all his human gorge rose
in violent disgust. Oh! if she could only be alone, as he was alone!
If it could be granted to her to think of her love, to think of him
in solitude and silence--in a solitude which no beast with a front
of brass and feet of clay had a right to break, both by night and
day! Ah! if her wretchedness might only be as his wretchedness! How
blessed would she not think herself!

And then she again asked herself whether there might not be some
escape. That women had separated themselves from their husbands,
she well knew. That pleas of ill-usage, of neglect, of harshness
of temper, had been put forward and accepted by the world, to the
partial enfranchisement of the unhappy wife, she had often heard. But
she had also heard that in such cases cruelty must be proved. A hasty
word, a cross look, a black brow would not suffice. Nor could she
plead that she hated the man, that she had never loved him, that she
had married him in wounded pique, because her lover--he whom she did
love--had thrown her off. There was no ground, none as yet, on which
she could claim her freedom. She had sold herself as a slave, and
she must abide her slavery. She had given herself to this beast with
the face of brass and the feet of clay, and she must endure the cold
misery of his den. Separation--solitude--silence! He--that he whom
her heart worshipped--he might enjoy such things; but for her--there
was no such relief within her reach.

She had gone up into her room when Sir Henry left her, in order that
no one might see her wretchedness, and there she remained for hours.
"No!" at last she said aloud, lifting her head from the pillow on
which her face had been all but hid, and standing erect in the room;
"no! I will not bear i