She remembered that Hamish was, though Arthur was not; and in point of disgrace, it amounted to the same thing. Constance passed her hand over her perplexed brow. “He is looked upon as guilty by many: that, we unfortunately know; and it may not be thought well that you should, under the circumstance, make me your wife. _You_ may not think so.” Mr. Yorke made no reply. He may have been deliberating the question. “Let us put it in this light, William,” she resumed, her tone one of intense pain. “Suppose, for argument’s sake, that Arthur were guilty; would you marry me, all the same?” “It is a hard question, Constance,” he said, after a pause. “It must be answered.” “Were Arthur guilty and you cognizant of it--screening him--I should lose half my confidence in you, Constance.” That was the knell. Her heart and her eyes alike fell, and she knew, in that one moment, that all hope of marrying William Yorke was at an end. “You think that, were he guilty--I am speaking only for argument’s sake,” she breathed in her emotion,--“you think, were I cognizant of it, I ought to betray him; to make it known to the world?” “I do not say that, Constance. No. But you are my affianced wife; and, whatever cognizance of the matter you might possess, whatever might be the mystery attending it--and a mystery I believe there is--you should repose the confidence and the mystery in me.” “That you might decide whether or not I am worthy to be your wife!” she exclaimed, a flash of indignation lighting up her spirit. To doubt her! She felt it keenly, Oh, that she could have told him the truth! But this she dare not, for Hamish’s sake. He took her hand in his, and gazed searchingly into her face. “Constance, you know what you are to me. This unhappy business has been as great a trial to me as to you. Can you deny to me all knowledge of its mystery, its guilt? I ask not whether Arthur be innocent or guilty; I ask whether you are innocent of everything in the way of concealment. Can you stand before me and assure me, in all truth, that you are so?” She could not. “I believe in Arthur’s innocence,” she replied, in a low tone. So did Mr. Yorke, or he might not have rejoined as he did. “I believe also in his innocence,” he said. “Otherwise--” “You would not make me your wife. Speak it without hesitation, William.” “Well--I cannot tell what my course would be. Perhaps, I would not.” A silence. Constance was feeling the avowal in all its bitter humiliation. It seemed to humiliate _her_. “No, no; it would not be right of him to make me his wife now,” she reflected. “Hamish’s disgrace may come out any day; he may still be brought to trial for it. His wife’s brother! and he attached to the cathedral. No, it would never do. William,” she said, aloud, “we must part.” “Part?” echoed Mr. Yorke, as the words issued faintly from her trembling lips.