"Husband and wife live apart sometimes, although they may inhabit the same roof. She and Harry Chandos parted; it is years ago now; she used him very ill; and I don't suppose he has ever so much as touched her hand since, save in the very commonest courtesies of everyday life: and that only when he could not help himself. Passion has long been over between them; they are civil when they meet; nothing more. My poor child, you look ready to fall." I did fall. But not until she left the room. I fell on the ground, and let my head lie there in my shock of misery. Much that had been obscure before seemed to shine out clearly now; things to which I had wanted a clue, appeared to be plain. I wished I could die, there as I lay, rather than have found him out in deceit so despicable. CHAPTER XXV NOTHING BUT MISERY. The sun shone brightly into my room in the morning, but there would be no more day's sun for me. What a night I had passed! If you have ever been deceived in the manner I had, you will understand it; if not, all the writing in the world would fail to convey to you a tithe of the misery that was mine—and that would be mine for years to come. _Her_ husband! whilst he pretended to love _me!_ All my study would now be to avoid Mr. Chandos. Entirely I could not; for we must meet at the daily repasts when he chose to sit down to them. In that I could not help myself. I was very silent that morning, and he was busy with his newspapers. He rode out after breakfast; to attend some county meeting, it was said; and returned at four o'clock. I remained in my own room until dinner-time; but I had to go down then. He appeared inclined to be thoroughly sociable; talked and laughed; and told me of a ludicrous scene which had occurred at the meeting; but I was cold and reserved, scarcely answering him. He regarded me keenly, as if debating with himself what it could be that had so changed my manner. When the servants had withdrawn, I quitted my place at table, and sat down in a low chair near the fire. "Why do you go there?" said Mr. Chandos. "You will take some dessert?" "Not this evening." "But why?" "My head aches." He quitted the table, came up, and stood before me. "Anne, what is the matter with you?" My breath was coming quickly, my swelling heart seemed as if it must burst. All the past rose up forcibly before me; he, a married man, had mocked me with his love; had—oh, worse than all!—gained mine. It was a crying insult; and it was wringing bitterly every sense of feeling I possessed. Anything else I could have borne. Mrs. Penn had hinted at some great crime; words of his own had confirmed it. Had he committed every crime known to man, I could have better forgiven it. But for this deliberate deceit upon me, there could be no forgiveness: and there could be no cure, no comfort for my lacerated heart. "Are you angry with me for any cause? Have I offended you?"