“No, no, no; Heaven of Heavens, no! You would not have been that guilty one, my lady,” exclaimed Barbara, covering her face with her hands, to shut out the sight of that pale and spectral countenance, and those gleaming black eyes, that seemed to consume those upon whom they looked. “I said a _wretched_, not a guilty woman. Are wretchedness and guilt synonymous? If so, then, indeed, am I a very guilty, being a very wretched woman,” said Lady Montressor, in a thrilling, impassioned voice. “Pardon me, my lady, if I have not understood you,” replied Barbara, with emotion. “How should you, indeed, until you hear. Attend, then, Miss Brande, and I will tell you my story,” said the lady, sinking again into her seat. And while Barbara Brande heard with painful interest, Lady Montressor related the tragic history of her two marriages, and ended by declaring the motives that had induced her to withdraw herself from Lord Montressor’s knowledge. Barbara listened with a face often streaming with tears, and when she had heard all, she took the lady’s wasted hand and said— “He weighs nothing in the balance of his love for you?” “Nothing.” “Neither rank, nor wealth, nor fame?” “No; alas, no!” “He stood nobly by you in your trial?” “He did, he did; my dear and honored lord! he did!” “He followed you across the ocean?” “Yes, yes.” “And he is still in pursuit of you?” “He is. Oh, he is.” “Then, Lady Montressor, how can you still elude him? The man who claimed you, even had his claim been ever so just, is now no more; there is not the shadow of a reason why you should fly so faithful a friend as Lord Montressor has shown himself to be.” “His honor, Miss Brande. His honor should forbid him to mate with one so wretched as myself!” “A man’s honor, my lady, is, according to my judgment, in his own exclusive keeping, and cannot be injured by anything but guilt or folly.” “But the honor of the woman, with whom Lord Montressor mates, should be like that of Cæsar’s wife, ‘not only pure, but unsuspected,’” said the lady. “Therefore have I withdrawn myself from him and renounced his name. Therefore, though my heart should break, my brain madden, or my life go down to death in the pain of this continued effort—will I conceal myself from his pursuit; until worn out with waiting and with searching, he shall at last repudiate and forget me.” “And you can coolly resolve to drive him to that?” exclaimed Barbara. “_Coolly?_ Miss Brande? Oh, look at me and say if you think I do this coolly! No, no; no, no! but he must be constrained to have that fatal ceremony that passed between us at the parish church at Hyde, annulled by Parliament. And he must ally himself to some lady—his equal in position and of unblemished honor.” “Lady Montressor, if I have read his lordship’s character aright, he can never do that.” “He can and must! he owes it to his family, to his position, to his rising fame!”