Magdalen was speaking now with somewhat
undisguised contempt.

"Yes!" said Paul, his lips quivering, "I
would rather you submitted patiently and
woman-like to any wrong than that you came
out into the open day to defend yourself.
The publicity! The disgrace! You — you,
my queenly Magdalen, in the criminal's
place; gazed at by the coarse rabble; spoken
of by the licentious press; your beauty
commented on; your innocence made the theme
of arguments and doubt, bandied about from
counsel to counsel; tormented, insulted;
looked at by bold eyes — never! never!
Magdalen, it would break my heart! . It
would be such degradation to you, as I could
never bear. For I am jealous of you for your
own sake!"

"Is not this rather childish?" said
Magdalen. "Have you no more sense of justice
—of justice to one's self — of innate dignity,
and the worth which cannot be lessened by
any outward act ? Are you not frightening
yourself with words as much as you
sometimes flatter yourself with words, when you
say that you will protect and support me, and
live by your art ? I know what the future
would be, better than you know, Paul. I am
neither so good nor so enthusiastic as you,
but I am more rational, and I think I
understand real life better than you."

"Magdalen! I am losing you!" was all
that Paul could say, as he sunk upon the
sofa, nearly suffocated with tears.

"Dear Paul, be reasonable," said Magdalen,
more tenderly; "what can you expect from
me, a woman of strong will, and holding my
father's wishes as the most sacred things on
earth, but the determination to uphold my
right and fulfil his intentions ? If every
time in our lives I differ from you in opinion,
and even in action, it would never do ever
for me to yield to such a terrible fit of
despair as this, Paul," and she tried to smile.
"This will never do!"

"Magdalen — darling wife — do with me as
you will! Only love me, be gentle with me,
stay near me, and do then as you will, even
with my conscience! Arrange my life as you
like. I am passive in your hands."

"Your conscience?" said Magdalen. "I am
not dealing with your conscience, nor your life,
excepting in so far as it relates to my own.
What I do is in my own affairs, and the
responsibility, both social and moral, is on my
own head only. I do not associate you in any
way with it, nor lay a feather's weight upon
you!" She did not mean to speak proudly,
and yet she did.

He raised his head. "Do as you will,"
he repeated. "Only love me, and let the
rest go!"

"This is my protector," thought
Magdalen, standing a little apart and looking
at him mournfully. "A weak, poetic boy of
intellect, but of no power; of thought, but
of no real force of action. And I — " she
laid her hand on her bosom heaving with
emotion, "and I must be strong enough for
both, and never let him nor the world know
that I regard him but as a petted child,
whom I must soothe by caresses, and from
whom I must guard the truth.

This discussion had no good effect on
either of them. Magdalen could not overcome
the impression left by Paul's tears
on her. She never thought of him now
without associating him with an hysterical
fit; which is neither a pleasant nor a dignified
association of ideas with any man, more
especially the man who is to be the lord and
master. Her manners grew colder; and,
with her coldness came, a certain shadowy
assumption of superiority; a certain vague
expression of contempt, which cut Paul to the
soul. Yet he felt that he deserved both. But
his unhappiness did not add to his strength.
He daily became more unhappy, daily more
hysterical. His health suffered, his finely
chiselled features became like the beauty of a
heart-broken angel; his lips were painfully
contracted, and so were his brows; and his
eyes — those large, tender, liquid blue orbs—
were never wholly free from tears, even while
he forced himself to smile, in such a ghastly
fashion as imposed on none but himself!
When Magdalen scolded him for being
miserable, he smiled in this awful way, and asked
her what more she wanted? — and didn't she
see how happy and joyous he was?

In the midst of this painful state of things,
Andrew, seeing that nothing could be done
either by menace or entreaty, suddenly
resolved on extreme measures. In one of his
drunken fits of fury, when he was more like
a demon than a man, he procured a warrant
for the apprehension of his sister on a charge
of forgery; and ten minutes after it was
granted by the magistrate, a police officer
was despatched to that still quiet country
house where he, the prosecutor, was born, to
bring to a felon's trial the playmate of his
early years, and the friend of his manhood—
his only and defenceless sister.

It was in the grim autumn twilight when
Magdalen and Paul heard a carriage pass
through the lawn gates, and drive up to the
house. Paul had been unusually doleful all
the day, for Magdalen had been unusually
absent in her manners. She had expected a
letter from her brother as usual; and, not
receiving one, anticipated some evil, and was
thinking how she should best meet it. Paul,
who referred all things to love, wondered
why she was not soothed by his caresses. He
thought it unkind in her to refuse them, and
unloving to doubt their power. He had
been troublesome, and tearful; and Magdalen
had been provoked into more than one harsh
speech, and more than one look of intense
weariness, which had not mended matters,
even as they stood. When she heard the
carriage-wheels, for a moment her heart sank
within her: she felt what they brought, she