Between each half sentence he darted looks at her, defying hers to contradict--and she could not contradict by word or look. “You could not speak,” continued he passionately, “till you had well determined what was to be told--what left untold to me! To me, Helen, your confiding--devoted--accepted lover! for I protest before Heaven, had I knelt at the altar with you, Helen Stanley, not more yours, not more mine could I have deemed you--not more secure of your love and truth--your truth, for what is love without it!--not more secure of perfect felicity could I have been on earth than I was when we two sat together but yesterday evening on that bank. Your words--your looks--and still your looks--But what signify tears!--Tears, women’s tears! Oh! what is woman!--and what is man that believes in her?--weaker still?” “Hear me!--hear me!” “Hear you?--No, Helen, do not now ask me to hear you.--Do not force me to hear you.--Do not debase, do not sully, that perfect image of truth.--Do not sink yourself, Helen, from that height at which it was my entranced felicity to see you. Leave me one blessed, one sacred illusion. No,” cried he, with increasing vehemence, “say nothing of all you have prepared--not one arranged word conned over in your midnight and your morning consultations,” pointing back to the window of her dressing-room, where he had seen her and Lady Cecilia. “You saw,” Helen began---- “Yes.--Am I blind, think you?--I wish I were. Oh! that I could be again the believing, fond, happy dupe I was but yesterday evening!” “Dupe!” repeated Helen. “But pour out all--all, dear Granville. Think--say--what you will--reproach--abuse me as you please. It is a relief--take it--for I have none to give.” “None!” cried he, his tone suddenly changing, “no relief to give!--What! have you nothing to say?--No explanation?--Why speak to me then at all?” “To tell you so at once--to end your suspense--to tell you that I cannot explain. The midnight consultation and the morning, were not to prepare for you excuse or apology, but to decide whether I could tell you the whole; and since that cannot be, I determined not to enter into any explanation. I am glad that you do not wish to hear any.” “Answer me one question,” said he:--“that picture-did you give it to Colonel D’Aubigny?” “No. That is a question I can answer. No--he stole it from Cecilia’s portfolio. Ask me no more.” “One question more--” “No, not one more--I cannot tell you anything more.” She was silent for a moment, he withdrew his eyes, and she went on. “Granville! I must now put your love and esteem for me to the test. If that love be what I believe it to be; if your confidence in me is what I think it ought to be, I am now going to try it. There is a mystery which I cannot explain. I tell you this, and yet I expect you to believe that I am innocent of anything wrong but the concealment. There are circumstances which I cannot tell you.”