’"The world and its ways have a certain worth,
       And to press a point where these oppose
       Were a simple policy.”

’But I will say nothing about who influenced—­who persuaded.  The act is mine, after all.  Edward, I married to escape dependence for my bread upon the whim of Miss Aldclyffe, or others like her.  It was clearly represented to me that dependence is bearable if we have another place which we can call home; but to be a dependent and to have no other spot for the heart to anchor upon—­O, it is mournful and harassing! . . .  But that without which all persuasion would have been as air, was added by my miserable conviction that you were false; that did it, that turned me!  You were to be considered as nobody to me, and Mr. Manston was invariably kind.  Well, the deed is done—­I must abide by it.  I shall never let him know that I do not love him—­never.  If things had only remained as they seemed to be, if you had really forgotten me and married another woman, I could have borne it better.  I wish I did not know the truth as I know it now!  But our life, what is it?  Let us be brave, Edward, and live out our few remaining years with dignity.  They will not be long.  O, I hope they will not be long! . . .  Now, good-bye, good-bye!’

‘I wish I could be near and touch you once, just once,’ said Springrove, in a voice which he vainly endeavoured to keep firm and clear.

They looked at the river, then into it; a shoal of minnows was floating over the sandy bottom, like the black dashes on miniver; though narrow, the stream was deep, and there was no bridge.

‘Cytherea, reach out your hand that I may just touch it with mine.’

She stepped to the brink and stretched out her hand and fingers towards his, but not into them.  The river was too wide.

‘Never mind,’ said Cytherea, her voice broken by agitation, ’I must be going.  God bless and keep you, my Edward!  God bless you!’

‘I must touch you, I must press your hand,’ he said.

They came near—­nearer—­nearer still—­their fingers met.  There was a long firm clasp, so close and still that each hand could feel the other’s pulse throbbing beside its own.

‘My Cytherea! my stolen pet lamb!’

She glanced a mute farewell from her large perturbed eyes, turned, and ran up the garden without looking back.  All was over between them.  The river flowed on as quietly and obtusely as ever, and the minnows gathered again in their favourite spot as if they had never been disturbed.

Nobody indoors guessed from her countenance and bearing that her heart was near to breaking with the intensity of the misery which gnawed there.  At these times a woman does not faint, or weep, or scream, as she will in the moment of sudden shocks.  When lanced by a mental agony of such refined and special torture that it is indescribable by men’s words, she moves among her acquaintances much as before, and contrives so to cast her actions in the old moulds that she is only considered to be rather duller than usual.