off, and talk it all over with some favourite
friend. Rachel Verinder's first instinct, under
similar circumstances, was to shut herself up
in her own mind, and to think it over by
herself. This absolute self-dependence is a great
virtue in a man. In a woman, it has the serious
drawback of morally separating her from the
mass of her sex, and so exposing her to
misconstruction by the general opinion. I strongly
suspect myself of thinking as the rest of the
world think in this matter— except in the case
of Rachel Verinder. The self-dependence in
her character, was one of its virtues in my
estimation; partly, no doubt, because I
sincerely admired and liked her; partly, because
the view I took of her connexion with the
loss of the Moonstone was based on my own
special knowledge of her disposition. Badly as
appearances might look, in the matter of the
Diamond—shocking as it undoubtedly was to
know that she was associated in any way with
the mystery of an undiscovered theft—I was
satisfied nevertheless that she had done nothing
unworthy of her, because I was also satisfied
that she had not stirred a step in the business,
without shutting herself up in her own mind,
and thinking it over first.

We had walked on, for nearly a mile I should
say, before Rachel roused herself. She
suddenly looked up at me with a faint reflection of
her smile of happier times—the most irresistible
smile I have ever seen on a woman's face.

"I owe much already to your kindness," she
said. " And I feel more deeply indebted to it
now than ever. If you hear any rumours of my
marriage when you go back to London,
contradict them at once, on my authority."

"Have you resolved to break your engagement?"
I asked.

"Can you doubt it?" she returned proudly,
" after what you have told me!"

"My dear Miss Rachel, you are very young
—and you may find more difficulty in
withdrawing from your present position than you
anticipate. Have you no one—I mean a lady
of course— whom you could consult?"

"No one," she answered.

It distressed me, it did indeed distress me,
to hear her say that. She was so young and so
lonely— and she bore it so well! The impulse
to help her got the better of any sense of my
own unfitness which I might have felt under
the circumstances; and I stated such ideas on
the subject as occurred to me on the spur of the
moment, to the best of my ability. I have
advised a prodigious number of clients, and have
dealt with some exceedingly awkward
difficulties, in my time. But this was the first
occasion on which I had ever found myself advising
a young lady how to obtain her release from a
marriage engagement. The suggestion I offered
amounted briefly to this. I recommended her
to tell Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite—at a private
interview, of course—that he had, to her
certain knowledge, betrayed the mercenary nature
of the motive on his side. She was then to add
that their marriage, after what she had
discovered, was a simple impossibility—and she
was to put it to him, whether he thought it
wisest to secure her silence by falling in with
her views, or to force her, by opposing them,
to make the motive under which she was acting
generally known. If he attempted to defend
himself, or to deny the facts, she was, in that
event, to refer him to me.

Miss Verinder listened attentively till I had
done. She then thanked me very prettily for
my advice, but informed me at the same time
that it was impossible for her to follow it.

"May I ask," I said, " what objection you
see to following it?"

She hesitated—and then met me with a
question on her side.

"Suppose you were asked to express your
opinion of Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite's conduct?"
she began.

"Yes?"

"What would you call it?"

"I should call it the conduct of a meanly
deceitful man."

"Mr. Bruff! I have believed in that man. I
have promised to marry that man. How can I
tell him he is mean, how can I tell him he has
deceived me, how can I disgrace him in the
eyes of the world, after that? I have degraded
myself by ever thinking of him as my husband.
If I say what you tell me to say to him —I
am owning that I have degraded myself to his
face. I can't do that after what has passed
between us—I can't do that! The shame of it
would be nothing to him. But the shame of it
would be unendurable to me."

Here was another of the marked peculiarities
in her character disclosing itself to me without
reserve. Here was her sensitive horror of the
bare contact with anything mean, blinding her
to every consideration of what she owed to
herself, hurrying her into a false position which
might compromise her in the estimation of all
her friends!  Up to this time, I had been a
little diffident about the propriety of the advice
I had given to her. But, after what she had
just said,. I had no sort of doubt that it was the
best advice that could have been offered; and I
felt no sort of hesitation in pressing it on her
again.

She only shook her head, and repeated her
objection in other words.

"He has been intimate enough with me to
ask me to be his wife. He has stood high
enough in my estimation to obtain my consent.
I can't tell him to his face that he is the most
contemptible of living creatures, after that!"

"But, my dear Miss Rachel," I remonstrated,
"it's equally impossible for you to tell
him that you withdraw from your engagement,
without giving some reason for it."

"I shall say that I have thought it over, and
that I am satisfied it will be best for both of us
if we part."

"No more than that?"

"No more."

"Have you thought of what he may say, on
his side?"