The task I had entrusted to my solicitor was one of extreme difficulty, but fortunately for me he was a man of inflexible resolution and perfect self-possession, qualities which made him more than a match for Maxwell, who undertook the management of Barbara's affairs. Every resistance was made to the carrying out of my plans, and a solicitor of doubtful reputation was employed by Maxwell to threaten and bluster. My own solicitor made light of this. "It will do them no good to go to law," he said to me. "The only satisfaction they would get would be the bringing up of your name before the public. The fact of their employing a lawyer of such a character shows that they are aware of the weakness of their case. In no event would they benefit to a greater extent than you propose." It was a wearisome and distressing business, and it is needless to say that I took no pleasure in it. I was animated by no sense of triumph, and was only upheld by my stern determination not to be turned from my purpose. Finally, Maxwell adopted other tactics. "The income you offer my poor sister," he wrote, "is utterly inadequate for her support. Through your misconduct she is now in such a deplorable state of health that the utmost care is needed. Make it five hundred pounds a year, and a public exposure of your brutality will be avoided. Within a few days of your marriage Barbara discovered that you had a mistress, and as a man of the world I know that there has been all through another woman in the case. It will be worth your while to make it five hundred pounds. I am not at the end of my resources, and if you refuse to act in a sensible way I will make it warm for you. You shall not have a moment's peace." Finally, after the lapse of several weeks, the distressing affair was brought to a conclusion. The house was sold, and Barbara removed from it, taking with her the whole of the furniture, to which, for the sake of peace, I offered no objection. The worry and anxiety had affected my health. Living alone, with no friend to cheer me, I should have felt myself a complete outcast from the world had in not been for the regular correspondence I kept up with Ellen. Her letters were my only comfort, and I may truly say that they preserved the balance of my mind. Confident as I was in the justice of my cause it may have been that, but for the consolation I drew from them, I should have again given way to despair. The natural reserve which distinguished her letters when she first began to write to me had melted away, and she wrote now as to a friend of long standing.