y life from his native land,
and destroying the last memorials of his birthright and his home--the
conviction of the influence she still retained over his bleak and
solitary existence--the experience she had already acquired that the
influence failed where she had so fondly hoped it might begin to repair
and to bless, all overpowered her with emotions of yearning tenderness
and unmitigated despair. What could she do? She could not offer herself,
again to be rejected. She could not write again, to force her penitence
upon the man who, while acknowledging his love to be unconquered, had
so resolutely refused to see, in the woman who had once deceived his
trust--the Caroline of old! Alas, if he were but under the delusion that
her pity was the substitute and not the companion of love, how could she
undeceive him? How say--how write--"Accept me, for I love you." Caroline
Montfort had no pride of rank, but she had pride of sex; that pride had
been called forth, encouraged, strengthened, throughout all the years
of her wedded life. For Guy Darrell's sake, and to him alone, that pride
she had cast away--trampled upon; such humility was due to him. But when
the humility had been once in vain, could it be repeated--would it
not be debasement? In the first experiment she had but to bow to his
reproach--in a second experiment she might have but to endure his
contempt. Yet how, with her sweet, earnest, affectionate nature--how she
longed for one more interview--one more explanation! If chance could but
bring it about; if she had but a pretext--a fair reason, apart from any
interest of her own, to be in his presence once more! But in a few days
he would have left England forever--his heart yet more hardened in its
resolves by the last sacrifice to what it had so sternly recognised to
be a due to others. Never to see him more--never to know how much
in that sacrifice he was suffering now--would perhaps suffer more
hereafter, in the reaction that follows all strain upon purpose--and yet
not a word of comfort from her--her who felt born to be his comforter.

But this marriage, that cost him so much, must that be? Could she dare,
even for his sake, to stand between two such fair young lives as those
of Lionel and Sophy--confide to them what Fairthorn had declared--appeal
to their generosity? She shrunk from inflicting such intolerable sorrow.
Could it be her duty? In her inability to solve this last problem,
she bethought herself of Alba