actually asked me to give my
consent to selling Gleninch!"

So Eustace's mother wrote of him. But she had not trusted entirely
to her own powers of persuasion. A slip of paper was inclosed in her
letter, containing these two lines, traced in pencil--oh, so feebly and
so wearily!--by my poor darling himself:

"I am too weak to travel any further, Valeria. Will you come to me and
forgive me?" A few pencil-marks followed; but they were illegible. The
writing of those two short sentences had exhausted him.

It is not saying much for myself, I know--but, having confessed it when
I was wrong, let me, at least, record it when I did what was right--I
decided instantly on giving up all further connection with the recovery
of the torn letter. If Eustace asked me the question, I was resolved to
be able to answer truly: "I have made the sacrifice that assures your
tranquillity. When resignation was hardest, I have humbled my obstinate
spirit, and I have given way for my husband's sake."

There was half an hour to spare before I left the vicarage for the
railway station. In that interval I wrote again to Mr. Playmore, telling
him plainly what my position was, and withdrawing, at once and forever,
from all share in investigating the mystery which lay hidden under the
dust-heap at Gleninch.

CHAPTER XLIV. OUR NEW HONEYMOON.

It is not to be disguised or denied that my spirits were depressed on my
journey to London.

To resign the one cherished purpose of my life, when I had suffered
so much in pursuing it, and when I had (to all appearance) so nearly
reached the realization of my hopes, was putting to a hard trial a
woman's fortitude and a woman's sense of duty. Still, even if the
opportunity had been offered to me, I would not have recalled my letter
to Mr. Playmore. "It is done, and well done," I said to myself; "and I
have only to wait a day to be reconciled to it--when I give my husband
my first kiss."

I had planned and hoped to reach London in time to start for Paris by
the night-mail. But the train was twice delayed on the long journey
from the North; and there was no help for it but to sleep at Benjamin's
villa, and to defer my departure until the morning.

It was, of course, impossible for me to warn my old friend of the change
in my plans. My arrival took him by surprise. I found him alone in his
library, with a wonderful illumination of lamps and candles, absorbed
over some morsels of torn paper scattered on