Thus my heart fought with my soul, or with my instincts as a child of the Church, or whatever else it was that brought me back and back, again and again, in spite of all the struggles of my love, to the firm Commandment of our Lord.

Father Dan had been right—­I could not get away from that.  The Reverend Mother had been right, too—­other women might forget that they had broken the Divine law but I never should.  If I married Martin and went away with him, I should always be thinking of the falseness of my position, and that would make me unhappy.  It would also make Martin unhappy to witness my unhappiness, and that would be the worst bitterness life could bring.

Then what was left to me?  If it was impossible that I should bury myself in a convent it was equally impossible that I should live alone, and Martin in the same world with me.

Not all the spiritual pride I could conjure up in the majesty and solemnity of my self-sacrifice could conquer the yearning of my heart as a woman.  Not all my religious fervour could keep me away from Martin.  In spite of my conscience, sooner or later I should go to him—­I knew quite well I should.  And my child, instead of being a barrier dividing us, would be a natural bond calling on us and compelling us to come together.

Then what was left to a woman in my position who believed in the Divine Commandment—­who could not get away from it?  Were all the doors of life locked to her?  Turn which way she would, was there no way out?

Darker and darker every day became this question, but light came at last, a kind of light or the promise of light.  It was terrible, and yet it brought me, oh, such immense relief!

I am almost afraid to speak of it, so weak and feeble must any words be in which I attempt to describe that unforgetable change.  Already I had met some of the mysteries of a woman’s life—­now I was to meet the last, the greatest, the most tragic, and yet the kindest of them all.

I suppose the strain of emotion I had been going through had been too much for my physical strength, for three days after the arrival of Martin’s letter I seemed to be really ill.

I am ashamed to dwell on my symptoms, but for a moment I am forced to do so.  My eyes were bright, my cheeks were coloured, and there was no outward indication of any serious malady.  But towards evening I always had a temperature, and in the middle of the night (I was sleeping badly) it rose very high, with a rapid pulse and anxious breathing, and in the morning there was great exhaustion.

Old Doctor Conrad, who had been coming to me twice a day, began to look very grave.  At last, after a short examination, he said, rather nervously: 

“I should like a colleague from Blackwater to consult with me.  Will you receive him?”

I said “Yes” on one condition—­that if the new doctor had anything serious to say he should report it first to me.