The horror of this infamous statement so completely overwhelmed her that she lost the power of speech. The room swam before her; in her excitement she had risen to her feet, and her slight form swayed like a reed in the throes of a pitiless storm. Presently Leonard spoke again, and his voice brought some clearness to her distracted mind; but every word he uttered cut into her heart like a sharp knife.

"If you are not sufficiently composed to hear what it is my duty to say, I will leave you and come again in an hour."

She motioned to him to remain, and her trembling hands then stretched themselves toward a bottle of water on the table. He poured some into a glass, which he placed close to her. Rallying a little she managed to raise the glass to her lips, and to drink, the cold draught revived her fainting senses.

"Speak," she said. "Say what you have to say."

"Had my brother lived," said Leonard, "the time would have come when he would have been compelled to make the disclosure himself. Being gone, the duty which was his devolves upon me. It may be that he would have righted the wrong he did you, for he was weak and easily prevailed upon. I do not seek to excuse him, and it is certain that he acted as he deemed best when he deceived you. Are you attending to me? Shall I go on?"

"Yes," she gasped, "go on."

"When you were lying at death's door in the village to which you had flown, the name of which you probably remember--" He purposely paused here, to afford her an opportunity of answering him.

"I do not remember it," she said. "If I heard it, it has gone from me. My mind was a blank."

"He was informed by the doctor," continued Leonard, with guilty satisfaction, "who attended you that there was only one means of restoring your reason, and that was to make you his wife. It was then he conceived the idea of a sham marriage ceremony. It must be clear to you, as it is to every person gifted with common-sense, that it was not possible for you to marry him or any man in your state of mind. No minister would have sanctioned such a marriage, and you could not, therefore, be married in church. It was easy for Gerald to devise a mock civil marriage, and to carry you away immediately to a foreign country in order that you should not discover the deception. You have been witness of the love which existed between him and me; his death is to me an irreparable loss. I endeavored to dissuade him from his purpose, but he would not listen to me: weak and amiable as he was, he had a soul of obstinacy when his mind was strongly set, and my words of counsel fell upon ears which were deaf to all the arguments I could use. I saw that there was a danger that the strong love we had for each other might be sapped if I thwarted him, and I could bear anything but that. My dear, dear brother! His spirit is with me day and night, and I forgive him for the action, although many would condemn him for it. Now, perhaps, you can understand why you are looked upon with disfavor here in this place--with something more than disfavor, indeed, with repugnance. They regard your presence as a shame and a scandal, and young girls are enjoined by their parents to avoid you. Since my dear Gerald's death the true story of your relations with him has in some way become known. It is not unlikely that he himself confided it to some person, perhaps to the village priest; and, to speak plainly, your position here is a little worse than it was in your native town in England, from which you had to fly. It is out of a feeling of kindness to you that I tell you it will be best for you to leave as soon as possible. The simple people will not tolerate you among them, and they may show their feelings toward you in a more practical manner than they have yet done. To enable you to escape I have a proposition to make to you, if you care to listen to it."

To escape! Had it come to that? Was it to be ever her fate to fly from unmerited shame, to be oppressed and hunted down? But it was not of herself alone she thought; her unborn babe appealed to her. A life of duty lay before her. It was merciful that this view of the position in which she stood came to her aid; otherwise her great despair might have driven her to the last desperate expedient of those wretched mortals to whom life has become a burden too hard to be longer endured.

"What is your proposition," she asked, faintly.

"My brother had a regard for you," said Leonard, "and when the time had arrived when, supposing that he had lived, he would have been compelled to separate himself from you, he would most likely have made some provision for you. I stand in his place, and I do loving honor to his memory by acting as he would have done. You shall not face the world in poverty, and besides, you shall not have the power to say that you have been first betrayed and then cast forth penniless. I will provide for you, and will undertake to pay, through a lawyer whom I shall appoint, a sum of two pounds a week so long as you lead a respectable life and say nothing to my dear brother's hurt. You may live where you like, but I would advise you to choose some other country than England. There the story of your shame would cling to you, would follow you everywhere. Away from England no one would know, and life would be easier for you. Do you accept?"

"Leave me to myself," said Emilia. "I will send for you presently."

"I will wait below," said Leonard; "but do not be long in deciding, or I may change my mind."

Alone with her grief and her shame, Emilia, by a supreme effort of will, forced herself to calmness. The solemn sense of responsibility imbued her soul with strength. She was no longer a girl, dependent upon others for counsel, for guidance, for love. Not a friend in the world had she, but a helpless being would soon be lying at her breast who would claim from her all that it was in the power of a loving woman to give. A new life lay before her. How would she commence it?

She strove for a few minutes to bring the past back to her mind, but it presented itself to her in pictures so blurred and indistinct that she relinquished the effort. Up to the point of her being driven from Mrs. Seaton's house everything was clear, but her memory was gone upon all that had occurred afterward until she found herself with Gerald in a foreign land. The names of places, the names of people with which and whom she had been associated within that interval were completely blotted out. She did not doubt the base story which Leonard had related. Had she and Gerald been legally married he would have placed in her hands the certificate which proved her a lawful wife. The fatal omission proved Leonard's story to be true. Not a word about their marriage had ever passed between Gerald and herself during their honeymoon. He, with his careless easy nature, living with Emilia a life of sweetest happiness, left everything to the future; he had thought it wisest, too, to allow a long time to elapse before reviving memories which had brought Emilia so much sorrow; she would regain her full strength, she would be better able to think of the past. This was not known to Emilia; she could only decide upon her future action by what was within her cognizance.

She felt no bitterness toward Gerald. He had, no doubt, acted for the best, and had imposed upon her by a mock ceremony of marriage, in order that she might be restored to health and reason. Would it have been better that she had died? No. Her child would soon be in her arms, bringing with it hope, and light, and peace perhaps. But the child must not open her eyes among those who knew her unhappy mother's story. The duty to the unborn which Emilia had to perform must be performed elsewhere. Gerald's brother was right in advising her to choose some other country than England in which to reside. But she had to think of his offer to provide for her.

The moment she set her mind upon the subject she indignantly rejected the offer. It was too late to remedy the errors of the past into which she had been unwittingly led, but there should be no bridge between the past and the future. Even had she been willing to entertain the offer, it had been made in terms so insulting that no woman of decency could have accepted it without covering herself with shame. "You shall not have the power to say that you have been first betrayed and then cast forth penniless." The provision, then, assumed the shape of a bribe. And it was to be paid so long as she led a respectable life--a tacit admission that hitherto her life had been disreputable within her own knowledge. No, she would reject the offer, and would, with the labor of her own hands, support herself and child.

At this point of her musings the landlord of the inn unceremoniously entered the room.

"I wish you to leave my house to-day," he said.

She smiled sadly. This was the second time in her young life that she had been undeservedly thrust forth upon the world. But she ventured a gentle remonstrance.

"Give me till to-morrow," she pleaded, "and I will go. It is so sudden, and I am not prepared."

"I have nothing to do with that," he said roughly. "You must go to-day."

"If it must be," she said, resignedly, "I must submit. Will you kindly ask Mr. Leonard Paget to come to me?"

Needless to say that this cruel move had been prompted by the villain with whom Emilia was presently once more face to face.

"Have you reflected upon my offer?" he asked.

"Yes," she replied. "I cannot accept it."

He shrugged his shoulders, but not exactly at his ease. Did the rejection mean that she intended to fight for her rights? This might prove awkward. Her next words reassured him and made him jubilant again.

"I prefer to depend only upon myself, and to get my own living."

"How? Where?"

"I am well educated, and may be fortunate enough to obtain a situation as governess in a family or school where a knowledge of English is desirable. I thank you for your advice as to my future place of residence, and I shall ............