He knew not what to do; even at this passing moment, he knew it not. What ought he to do? Torn with conflicting emotion, he could not see where lay his duty in this very present dilemma. What was he to say to Ellen?--what to Mrs. Cumberland? Where seek an excuse for his conduct? They were expecting him, no doubt, by every train, and he did not go to them. He did not mean to go. What could he write?--what say? On the day of James Bohun's death, he took pen in hand and sat down: but he never wrote a word. The true reason he could not urge. He could not say to Ellen, Your father was a convict; he caused my father's death; and so our union must not take place. That Ellen knew nothing of any disgrace attaching to her father was as clear as day. "I tell you these dreadful truths in confidence," madam had said to Arthur, "you must not repeat them. You might be called upon to prove them--and proof would be very difficult to obtain at this distance of time. The Reverend George Cumberland knew all, even more than I; but he is dead: and it may be that Mrs. Cumberland knows nothing. I should almost think she does not: or she would never have wished to marry you to Adair's daughter. You can only be silent, Arthur; you must be so, for the poor girl's sake. By giving a mere hint as to what her father was, you would blight her prospects for life. Let her have her fair chance: though she may not marry you, she may be chosen by someone else: do nothing to hinder it. If the story ever comes out through others, why--you will be thankful, I dare say, that at least it was not through you." He sat with the pen in his hand, and did not write a word. No word or phrase in the whole English language would have served him. "My darling, Fate has parted us, but I would a great deal rather die than have to write it, and I shall hold you in my heart for ever." Something like that he would have said, had it been practicable. But he had no longer to deal with romance, but with stern reality. He put ink and pens away for the day, and lay back in his chair with a face almost as white as that of his dead cousin; and almost felt as though he were dying himself. Man has rarely gone through a keener mental conflict than this. He saw no way out of his dilemma; no possible means of escape. On the third day he spoke to Sir Nash. It was not that a suspicion of his mother's veracity crossed his mind: it did not do so: for she had betrayed too much agitation to permit him to doubt the genuineness of her revelation. Therefore, he spoke not to hear the tale confirmed, but in the fulness of his stricken heart.