‘_That_ is wholly false,’ cried Cyril. ‘I never loved but one woman, and you are she.’ ‘What does it matter? Why try to explain the past? It is all over and done with. To-morrow will make me your cousin’s wife. And you are come to assist at my wedding. But how is it you are here so early? You are not expected at the Vicarage till half-past seven.’ ‘I came by an earlier train than I intended, and having time to spare I went in to look at the old church,’ he answered, hurriedly. ‘And to pray for strength to bear to-morrow’s agony,’ he might have added, for he had been on his knees before the altar at which he had so often officiated, praying that his burden might be lightened for him. There was a silence. Beatrix still stood with her back to the railings that guarded the once splendid tomb of a knight banneret of Elizabeth’s reign. She had just strength to stand calmly there, steadily confronting her old lover, but she had no power to drag her limbs away from the spot. She knew that if she tried to move she must fall like a log at his feet; so she stood there, cold and white as the marble the tomb was made of. ‘Beatrix,’ cried Cyril, losing all mastery of himself in the bewilderment of being alone with her, close to her, as far from the outside world in that quiet corner of the churchyard as if they two had been lost upon the wildest bit of moorland in the country. ‘Beatrix, why are you going to marry Kenrick? Why have you been in such haste to prove how utterly you had forgotten me?’ ‘Are you not glad my wounds have healed so quickly? You have nothing to reproach yourself with on my account. Not even a broken heart.’ ‘And you love Kenrick?’ he asked, wonderingly. ‘He has never suspected me of a hideous crime. When every one spoke against me, he was staunch and true. I am very grateful to him.’ ‘Gratitude is not love.’ ‘Perhaps not, but affection and gratitude are near akin, and Kenrick is satisfied with affection.’ ‘I would not be if I were he,’ cried Cyril, beside himself with anger and jealousy. ‘I would have nothing less than your love, your whole-hearted passionate love. What! be content to dwell beside the narrow sluggish river, and never sicken for the wide wild sea? I would not be your husband on such terms. I despise my cousin that he can marry you, knowing, as he must know, that you do not love him.’ ‘You have no right to say that. Do you think yourself so much better than he that no woman, having once loved you, can love him?’ ‘I know that no true woman ever loved truly twice. There is no such thing as second love worth having. It is the mere ghost of feeling, like a rose cut at midsummer to be shut up in a box and brought out at Christmas, revived by sulphur fumes--a phantom flower, with no more bloom or freshness than if it were made of paper. Just so much for second love.’