More than ever convinced of the truth of her suspicions, Lady Gertrude's noble mind found it impossible to continue this mode of discovery any longer. She saw that Caroline imagined not she was the being alluded to; that not even the phrase "again refused" had startled her into consciousness, and she felt it was unkind to distress her more. "I knew it was false," she exclaimed, as the Viscount's tale flashed across her mind; then, checking herself, she took Caroline's cold and half-reluctant hand, and added, in a voice of extreme feeling, "Caroline, dearest Caroline, forgive my having penetrated your secret; fear me not, dear girl, I honour too much the feeling which dictates your conduct. You have learned to love St. Eval; you have repented the wilful and capricious treatment he once received from you. Deny it not, nay, do not shrink from me, and think, because I appear so calm, I cannot feel for those who are dear to me, and even sympathise in their love. I do not, I will not condemn the past; I did once, I own, but since I have known you, I have forgiven the mistaken wilfulness of a misguided girl. You love him--confess that I am right, dearest." Caroline's face was concealed within her hand, and almost agonized was its expression as she looked up. "Gertrude," she said, in a low, suffocated voice, "is it well, is it kind in you thus to speak, to lead me to avow a love for one who, your own words inform me, will soon be the husband of another?" "I said not of another, my dear girl; forgive me this stratagem to penetrate your well-preserved secret. My brother's happiness is so dear to me, I could not trust it to one of whose affection I was not certain. I am not aware I said he would soon be the husband of another; since, if he be again refused, that he never will be. Simply, then, for I have been quite tormenting enough, Eugene has striven long with himself to conquer his love, to be happy as your friend; associating with you as he does with Emmeline, but he cannot. He still loves you, Caroline, as devotedly, as faithfully--perhaps more so than when he first offered you his hand; he dares not renew that offer himself, for he feels a second refusal from your lips would wound him too deeply. Your voice may chain him to England, an altered and a happier man, or send him from its shores a misanthrope and wretched: it is for you to decide, Caroline, dearest. Must I plead with that eloquence, which you said would surpass even his own, or will the pleadings of your own kind heart suffice?"