“I felt that.  But you see, Bertha, until you did accept him, I had no right to assume that you would do so.  At least so I understood it, and I did not feel that in my position I was called upon to interfere until I learned that you were really in danger of what I considered wrecking your life’s happiness.”

“I understand that,” she said, gently, “and I know that you acted for the best.  But there are other things you have not told me, Major Mallett—­other things that George Lechmere has told me.  Did you think that it would have been of no interest to me to know that you had forgiven the man who tried to take your life; and, more than that, had restored his self respect, taken him as your servant, treated him as a friend?”

The tears stood in her eyes now.

“Don’t you think, Frank, that was a thing that I might have been interested to know—­a thing that would raise you immeasurably in the eyes of a woman—­that would show her vastly more of your real character than she could know by meeting you from day to day as a friend?”

“It was his secret and not mine, Bertha.  It was known to but him and me.  Never was a man more repentant or more bitterly regretful for a fault—­that was in my eyes scarcely a fault at all—­except that he had too rashly assumed me to be the author of the ruin of the girl he loved.  The poor fellow had been half maddened, and was scarce responsible for his actions.  He had already suffered terribly, and the least I could do was to endeavour to restore his self respect by showing him that I had entirely forgiven him.  Any kindness that I have shown him he has repaid ten-fold, not only by saving my life, but in becoming my most sincere and attached friend.  I promised him that I would tell no one, and I have never done so, and no one to this day knows it, save his father and mother.

“How then could I tell even you?  You must see yourself that it was impossible that I could tell you.  Besides, the story was of no interest save to him and me; and above all, as I said, it was his secret and not mine.”

“I see that now,” she said.  “Still, I am so sorry, so very sorry, that I did not know it before.

“You see, Frank,” she went on, after a pause; “we women have to make or unmake our lives very much in the dark.  No one helps us, and if we have not a brother to do so, we are groping in the dark.  Look at me.  Here was I, believing that Mr. Carthew, whom I met everywhere in society, was, except that he kept race horses and bet heavily, as good as other men.  He was very pleasant, very good looking, generally liked, and infinitely more amusing than most men one meets.  How was I to tell what he really was?

“On the other hand, there were you, my dear friend, who, I knew, had shown yourself a very brave soldier, and whom also everyone liked and spoke well of, but of whose real character I did not know much, except on the side that was always presented to me; and now I find you capable of what I consider a grand act of generosity.”