In her personal appearance, I saw a change for the worse:  produced, I suppose, by the troubles that have tried her sorely, poor thing.  There was a sad loss of delicacy in her features, and of purity in her complexion.  Even her dress—­I should certainly not have noticed it in any other woman—­seemed to be loose and slovenly.  In the agitation of the moment, I forgot the long estrangement between us; I half lifted my hand to take hers, and checked myself.  Was I mistaken in supposing that she yielded to the same impulse, and resisted it as I did?  She concealed her embarrassment, if she felt any, by patting the dog.

“I am ashamed that you should have taken the journey to London in this wintry weather—­” she began.

It was impossible, in her situation, to let her assume this commonplace tone with me.  “I sincerely feel for you,” I said, “and sincerely wish to help you, if I can.”

She looked at me for the first time.  Did she believe me? or did she still doubt?  Before I could decide, she took a letter from her pocket, opened it, and handed it to me.

“Women often exaggerate their troubles,” she said.  “It is perhaps an unfair trial of your patience—­but I should like you to satisfy yourself that I have not made the worst of my situation.  That letter will place it before you in Mr. Romayne’s own words.  Read it, except where the page is turned down.”

It was her husband’s letter of farewell.

The language was scrupulously delicate and considerate.  But to my mind it entirely failed to disguise the fanatical cruelty of the man’s resolution, addressed to his wife.  In substance, it came to this:—­

“He had discovered the marriage at Brussels, which she had deliberately concealed from him when he took her for his wife.  She had afterward persisted in that concealment, under circumstances which made it impossible that he could ever trust her again.” (This no doubt referred to her ill-advised reception of me, as a total stranger, at Ten Acres Lodge.) “In the miserable break-up of his domestic life, the Church to which he now belonged offered him no t only her divine consolation, but the honor, above all earthly distinctions, of serving the cause of religion in the sacred ranks of the priesthood.  Before his departure for Rome he bade her a last farewell in this world, and forgave her the injuries that she had inflicted on him.  For her sake he asked leave to say some few words more.  In the first place, he desired to do her every justice, in a worldly sense.  Ten Acres Lodge was offered to her as a free gift for her lifetime, with a sufficient income for all her wants.  In the second place, he was anxious that she should not misinterpret his motives.  Whatever his opinion of her conduct might be, he did not rely on it as affording his only justification for leaving her.  Setting personal feeling aside, he felt religious scruples (connected with his marriage) which left him no other alternative than the separation on which he had resolved.  He would briefly explain those scruples, and mention his authority for entertaining them, before he closed his letter.”