At last: ‘I believed it. Yes—I was sure from the first. But it is very cruel. I have not deserved that insult. Whom have I followed? What honours have I tried to reach? I have striven, dear Mr. Brownlow, not even to think of him. Ever since my father forbade me to see him, or hold any sort of intercourse with him, there was but one thing to do—to obey. And I have obeyed. God knows that I have. You believe me?’ She glanced up in my face with something of the old witch-smile. My eyes answered yes. I dared not trust myself to speak. She looked down again on to the smooth turf and soft, scrambling, peeping chickens. ‘Tell me—I only saw her once, and saw she was very handsome. But is she—is she worthy of him?’ ‘Do not ask me,’ I said, weakly perhaps; but I was hard pressed, wellnigh desperate. ‘Judge for yourself of the nature of the woman who could write such a letter.’ ‘No, if I begin to judge, if I begin to fancy, I should go—it is wrong, it is wicked of me—but I feel, at times, I should go mad.’ She was silent again, looking down. Then: ‘God forgive her—for this letter has undone the work of months. Ever since we left Yorkshire, and came here to Westrea, I have struggled for my father’s sake, for Aunt Ann’s—and for my own pride’s sake too—to put the thought of him out of my mind, and interest myself in books, in my father’s schemes, and in my own home duties. I believed I had conquered myself, conquered my—my love. But this letter brought back all the pain, and stirred up something violent and evil in me—something I have never felt before. It is degrading. I am jealous, dear Mr. Brownlow—jealous. Do you know what that means?’ Alas! did I not know?—and most bitterly! ‘But of course you do not. How should you!’ she went on. How should I indeed?—And she smiled at me in lovely apology, thereby cutting me to the quick. For did not her words, her look, show how wholly innocent and ignorant she was of all personal feeling on my part? Well, and if so, what had I to complain of? Earlier, had it not been an integral element in that mystic, fantastic inner life of mine, to conceive of her loving the dear boy as deeply, eternally; even though as hopelessly, as I loved her? Now that my conception proved true in fact, what cause had I to be hurt, and to shrink? Was it not inconsistent, illogical, a very height of unreason? I took myself to task for my folly; but I suffered. Meanwhile an idea occurred to me, but I dared not put it into execution yet. In Fédore’s letter was one lie which could and, in justice to the dear boy, ought to be refuted. But I must wait until I could judge better of Nellie’s powers of endurance, and better trust my own calmness and nerve in handling a very delicate subject. Now I only said to her: ‘Will you trust me with this letter, and let me keep it for the present?’ ‘Why?’ ‘Because—forgive me if I seem to preach to you—as long as it remains in your possession, you cannot, I think, but read and re-read it.’