“Then it came--the rush of many feet, the murmur of many voices, all crying for Sir Ronald--Sir Ronald--for my lady was drowned in the wood! “Mary Thorne had found her, and she was the first to tell me the tale. There was no suspicion in her mind. I saw at once she never in the least suspected me of having caused the lady’s death. Oh! Hermione, I cannot tell you all the horrors. I do not know how I bore it. A thousand times each day the impulse came to me to own myself guilty and to put an end to my tortures. I made all kinds of pretexts and excuses to throw people off their guard, to give them a false clue, a false step, yet longed that they should turn round suddenly and find me guilty. “People talk of remorse. Ah! my darling; the remorseless sting of that terrible pain never left me. It seemed to eat my very heart away, to prey upon my mind. It robbed me of health, of strength, of peace. I suffered terribly--God knows--most terribly for my sin! I could never tell you how much. Perhaps the most bitter hour of all was when I stood with Kenelm by the body of Clarice and heard the story of his love for her. How cruel Fate was! I loved you! Kenelm loved Clarice, and we were parted. “Can you imagine what a long, dark, dull brooding dream is, Hermione? That was mine after she was buried. A man who commits a murder is hung for the crime; his lot is merciful compared to that of the man who repents and lives on. I have wept tears of blood for mine. I would have given my life over and over again ten thousand times never to have done the deed. I would have suffered the extremity of torture for the power to undo it. “But remorse and repentance were all in vain; nothing could bring my wife back to me. She was gone forever. Nothing could undo my crime. Its record was written in the Book of God. Who could tear out the page? Hermione, I wore myself to a shadow. I neither slept, nor ate, nor rested. My nights and days were one long agony. I used to lie on my face for long hours together praying God to pardon me--to pity me--but peace and rest were all over in this world. I only remember that time as a hideous darkness in which there came no gleam of light. “Until, like a white dove over troubled waters, like a sunbeam in deepest night, like a soft, sweet strain or harmony amongst terrible discord, came your little note, Hermione, and then, like snow before the sun, my sorrow seemed dispelled. I dared to raise my head, I dared to hope that God had pardoned me. I dared to hope white-winged peace might hover over me once more.