‘But, Edward, what’s that, what’s that!’ she cried, in an agony of reproach.  ’Why did you leave me to return to her?  Why did you write me that cruel, cruel letter that nearly killed me!’

’Cytherea!  Why, you had grown to love—­like—­Mr. Manston, and how could you be anything to me—­or care for me?  Surely I acted naturally?’

’O no—­never!  I loved you—­only you—­not him—­always you!—­till lately. . . .  I try to love him now.’

’But that can’t be correct!  Miss Aldclyffe told me that you wanted to hear no more of me—­proved it to me!’ said Edward.

‘Never! she couldn’t.’

’She did, Cytherea.  And she sent me a letter—­a love-letter, you wrote to Mr. Manston.’

‘A love-letter I wrote?’

’Yes, a love-letter—­you could not meet him just then, you said you were sorry, but the emotion you had felt with him made you forgetful of realities.’

The strife of thought in the unhappy girl who listened to this distortion of her meaning could find no vent in words.  And then there followed the slow revelation in return, bringing with it all the misery of an explanation which comes too late.  The question whether Miss Aldclyffe were schemer or dupe was almost passed over by Cytherea, under the immediate oppressiveness of her despair in the sense that her position was irretrievable.

Not so Springrove.  He saw through all the cunning half-misrepresentations—­worse than downright lies—­which had just been sufficient to turn the scale both with him and with her; and from the bottom of his soul he cursed the woman and man who had brought all this agony upon him and his Love.  But he could not add more misery to the future of the poor child by revealing too much.  The whole scheme she should never know.

‘I was indifferent to my own future,’ Edward said, ’and was urged to promise adherence to my engagement with my cousin Adelaide by Miss Aldclyffe:  now you are married I cannot tell you how, but it was on account of my father.  Being forbidden to think of you, what did I care about anything?  My new thought that you still loved me was first raised by what my father said in the letter announcing my cousin’s marriage.  He said that although you were to be married on Old Christmas Day—­that is to-morrow—­he had noticed your appearance with pity:  he thought you loved me still.  It was enough for me—­I came down by the earliest morning train, thinking I could see you some time to-day, the day, as I thought, before your marriage, hoping, but hardly daring to hope, that you might be induced to marry me.  I hurried from the station; when I reached the village I saw idlers about the church, and the private gate leading to the House open.  I ran into the church by the small door and saw you come out of the vestry; I was too late.  I have now told you.  I was compelled to tell you.  O, my lost darling, now I shall live content—­or die content!’

‘I am to blame, Edward, I am,’ she said mournfully; ’I was taught to dread pauperism; my nights were made sleepless; there was continually reiterated in my ears till I believed it—­