I know not how, nor can I tell the exact moment when the decision was made; but, in the end, I decided to leave the old homestead and to give Ruth happiness. I claim no virtue for my act. There was not much in it after all. I should never be happy if I remained at home; nay, Trewinion Manor would be hell to me, while spectres that I should constantly be raising would haunt my life. Besides, I might find some relief away. I would go, I would roam the world all over, and, perhaps, away from the scene of my misery, I should find peace. My heart was breaking, and it was not worth while for me to add misery to that which was already felt by those by whom I was surrounded. It may be said by those who read this that my act was one of great self-denial; but if it was it brought none of that peace and inward satisfaction which are said to come from such deeds. My misery, if possible, became more intense, and the storm seemed to mock me with shrieks and howls of derision. With a great weight on my heart I crept back to the house, and slowly went to my room. When should I go? "To-morrow" was the response of my weaker nature. "Get a good night's rest, make an impressive scene before Ruth, and go away with a flourish of trumpets." But that would not do. I doubt whether I could have had the heart to go away in the daylight if I saw Ruth near me. Besides, I did not want to go away openly; I would leave in secret, when no eye should see me, and when no one should be able to trace me. When should I go? "Now!" That was the answer of my stronger and sterner nature. Leave in the night, alone, and at once. Never look at the sweet face of Elizabeth and Katherine, never be weakened by the beauty of Ruth, never be shaken in my resolve by the patronising pride of Wilfred or the unloving look of my mother. Delay would be dangerous. On the one hand were influences leading me to stay, by making me defiant, hard, and bitter; on the other, by making me weak and yielding. I would go at once then. Where? That mattered not for the time. I would leave the house at once, and decide my course when once away and alone. Should I let any one know what had become of me, should I write a letter to Ruth, or Wilfred, or mother? I dared not. To do that would weaken me at once. Still, it would be better that I should let them all know that I was gone away, never to return. I clothed myself in a strong plain suit of clothes, which I had used when shooting on our boggy rough moors, put twenty guineas in my pocket, and then went down into the library again. I did not look around me and think of the hours I had spent there. If I did Ruth could not be happy, for I should not have sufficient courage to remove my black shadow from her life. I went to the writing desk and began to try to say good-bye. That I found I could not do, so I simply wrote the words: