The last words were spoken with an hysterical sobbing.  “Oh, Maude!” broke from the lips of Lord Hartledon.

“You will reproach me for disobedience, of course; for meanness, perhaps; but I knew there was some awful secret, and you would not tell me.  I earned my punishment, if that will be any satisfaction to you; I have never since enjoyed an instant’s peace, night or day.”

He hid his face in his pain.  This was the moment he had dreaded for years; anything, so that it might be kept from her, he had prayed in his never-ceasing fear.

“Forgive, forgive me!  Oh, Maude, forgive me!”

She did not respond; she did not attempt to soothe him; if ever looks expressed reproach and aversion, hers did then.

“Have compassion upon me, Maude!  I was more sinned against than sinning.”

“What compassion had you for me?  How dared you marry me? you, bound with crime?”

“The worst is over, Maude; the worst is over.”

“It can never be over:  you are guilty of wilful sophistry.  The crime remains; and—­Lord Hartledon—­its fruits remain.”

He interrupted her excited words by voice and gesture; he took her hands in his.  She snatched them from him, and burst into a fit of hysterical crying, which ended in a faintness almost as of death.  He did not dare to call assistance; an unguarded word might have slipped out unawares.

Shut them in; shut them in! they had need to be alone in a scene such as that.

Lord and Lady Hartledon went down to Calne, as she wished.  But not immediately; some two or three weeks elapsed, and during that time Mr. Carr was a good deal with both of them.  Their sole friend:  the only man cognizant of the trouble they had yet to battle with; who alone might whisper a word of something like consolation.

Lady Hartledon seemed to improve.  Whether it was the country, or the sort of patched-up peace that reigned between her and her husband, she grew stronger and better, and began to go out again and enjoy life as usual.  But in saying life, it must not be thought that gaiety is implied; none could shun that as Lady Hartledon now seemed to shun it.  And he, for the first time since his marriage, began to take some interest in his native place, and in his own home.  The old sensitive feeling in regard to meeting the Ashtons lingered still; was almost as strong as ever; and he had the good sense to see that this must be overcome, if possible, if he made Hartledon his home for the future, as his wife now talked of doing.

As a preliminary step to it, he appeared at church; one, two, three Sundays.  On the second Sunday his wife went with him.  Anne was in her pew, with her younger brother, but not Mrs. Ashton:  she, as Lord Hartledon knew by report, was too ill now to go out.  Each day Dr. Ashton did the whole duty; his curate, Mr. Graves, was taking a holiday.  Lord Hartledon heard another report, that the curate