"I did that which seemed easiest at the time--I kept silence. He had sailed away, saying nothing of the marriage, neither would I. I would take the just punishment of my folly, live single all my life, and keep my dreadful secret. There seemed to me no other plan. To tell the truth, I stood too much in awe of my father and mother to dare even to tell them. I dreaded their anger. I dreaded the cool, calm contempt in my mother's face. I dreaded the disappointment that would, I knew, be my father's greatest grief. What else could I do but keep my sad secret all to myself? "Yes, I declare to you that the struggle in my own mind was so dreadful, the pain and sorrow so great, that I almost died of it. No one ever said anything to me about Captain Studleigh. Even those who seemed to fancy there had been a slight flirtation between us, considered his going away as a proof that there was none. I saw that my parents were greatly relieved by his absence; and after a few weeks the shock began to get less. Lady Agnes asked me once if I were unhappy over him. I made some evasive reply. Then, after a time, I began to look my life in the face, to think that the evil done was not without remedy. I could bear the penalty of my folly, if the secret of my ill-starred marriage could be kept." CHAPTER XXXIX. A MOTHER'S CONFESSION. "I come now to a part of my story," resumed Lady Estelle, "that I would fain pass over in silence; but as it touches the matter that brought me here, I am obliged to tell you." The proud, fair woman buried her face in her hands as she spoke, and Earle understood how terrible was the struggle between her need of help and her pride. When she raised her face again, it was ghastly white. "Captain Studleigh had been gone four months," she gasped, "when I knew that the most terrible of all my trials had come to me--that I should be the mother of a child. For a long time--for days and weeks--I was in the most terrible despair. I often wonder," she said, musingly, "how it was that the agony of my shame did not kill me--I cannot understand it even now. I did think in those days of killing myself, but I was not brave enough--I lacked the courage. Yet I do not think any one in the wide world ever suffered so greatly. There was I--sole daughter of that ancient house; flattered, beloved, courted, _feted_, the envy of all who knew me--with a secret bitter as death, black as sin. At last, when I found myself obliged to seek assistance, I went to Lady Agnes Delapain, and told her all. "Her amazement and dread of the consequences were at first appalling to me. After the first expressions of surprise and regret, she said: "'So you were married to him--married to him all the time? I never suspected it.' "She was very kind to me--kinder, a thousand times, than I deserved. She did not reproach me; but when she had recovered, she said: