in distress, and her lips trembled.

"I've seen it coming since last Christmas," she continued, in a
hurried, tremulous undertone. "You know he came down to Bath; that
was our last meeting; and I felt that something was wrong. Ah, so
hard to know oneself! I wanted to talk to you about it; but then I
said to myself--what can Bertha do but tell me to know my own
mind? And that's just what I couldn't come to,--to understand my
own feelings. I was changing, I knew that. I dreaded to look into my
own thoughts, from day to day. Above all, I dreaded to sit down and
write to him. Oh, the hateful falsity of those letters--Yet what
could I do, what could I do? I had no right to give such a blow,
unless I felt that anything else was utterly, utterly impossible."

"And at last you did feel it?"

"In Switzerland--yes. It came like a flash of lightning. I was
walking up that splendid valley--you remember my description--up
toward the glacier. That morning I had had a letter, naming the very
day for our marriage, and speaking of the house--your house at
Putney--he meant to take. I had said to myself--'It must be; I
can do nothing. I haven't the courage.' Then, as I was walking, a
sort of horror fell upon me, and made me tremble; and when it passed
I saw that, so far from not having the courage to break, I should
never dare to go through with it. And I went back to the hotel, and
sat down and wrote, without another moment's thought or hesitation."

"What else could you have done?" said Bertha, with a sigh of relief.
"When it comes to horror and tremblings!"