“Oh, guardian, I have seen her many and many a time!”

“Seen her?”

He paused a little, biting his lip.  “Then, Esther, when you spoke to me long ago of Boythorn, and when I told you that he was all but married once, and that the lady did not die, but died to him, and that that time had had its influence on his later life—­did you know it all, and know who the lady was?”

“No, guardian,” I returned, fearful of the light that dimly broke upon me.  “Nor do I know yet.”

“Lady Dedlock’s sister.”

“And why,” I could scarcely ask him, “why, guardian, pray tell me why were they parted?”

“It was her act, and she kept its motives in her inflexible heart.  He afterwards did conjecture (but it was mere conjecture) that some injury which her haughty spirit had received in her cause of quarrel with her sister had wounded her beyond all reason, but she wrote him that from the date of that letter she died to him—­as in literal truth she did—­and that the resolution was exacted from her by her knowledge of his proud temper and his strained sense of honour, which were both her nature too.  In consideration for those master points in him, and even in consideration for them in herself, she made the sacrifice, she said, and would live in it and die in it.  She did both, I fear; certainly he never saw her, never heard of her from that hour.  Nor did any one.”

“Oh, guardian, what have I done!” I cried, giving way to my grief; “what sorrow have I innocently caused!”

“You caused, Esther?”

“Yes, guardian.  Innocently, but most surely.  That secluded sister is my first remembrance.”

“No, no!” he cried, starting.

“Yes, guardian, yes!  And her sister is my mother!”

I would have told him all my mother’s letter, but he would not hear it then.  He spoke so tenderly and wisely to me, and he put so plainly before me all I had myself imperfectly thought and hoped in my better state of mind, that, penetrated as I had been with fervent gratitude towards him through so many years, I believed I had never loved him so dearly, never thanked him in my heart so fully, as I did that night.  And when he had taken me to my room and kissed me at the door, and when at last I lay down to sleep, my thought was how could I ever be busy enough, how could I ever be good enough, how in my little way could I ever hope to be forgetful enough of myself, devoted enough to him, and useful enough to others, to show him how I blessed and honoured him.

CHAPTER XLIV

The Letter and the Answer