'My child. It is my place to think for you, and to endure what must be for your benefit. The time will arrive when you will be married. You have been made to feel in a fashion what it means to stand alone, and to have no man by you to fight your battles. There is no farm lad you would take, and no gentlemen who would take you.'

'But, mother, my father had no such thoughts.'

'And what came of it? He deserted me because I did not belong to his class. It would be the same with you—and that shall never, never be.' Her face became darker, sterner. 'I have known what desertion means. I once loved and trusted, and tied up all my hopes to one man. And for nineteen years I have eaten out my heart in wrath and resentment because I have been forsaken. I have not slept, I have tossed on my bed, night after night; I have had a fire here, in my bosom, burning me, week after week, month after month, expecting, desiring, and never seeing him return, never hearing of him save that he had gone away, gone out of England, so as to be removed from me, put the wide ocean between us, lest I should go after him; and there, where he is, I doubt not he has found some other woman better suited to him than myself.'

'But, mother, he is in England again.'

'Yes—in England, but will not return to me. You he may receive, but me—never. And I did him no wrong—never, never, in word or act or deed. Only I was a poor, ignorant, and common girl—that was my sole wrong.'

Her fingers worked rapidly. 'I have no hope, no care for myself. All I think or hope for concerns you. Winefred, I would throw you over the cliffs rather than that should happen to you which was my lot. You must learn to become that which I never was and never could have been, and so you will not only find a husband, but also keep him.'

'I do not wish to be married.'

'Marry you must. You cannot stand alone. You are a well-grown and a handsome girl, but unless you have education all that does more harm than good. I was—so all said—a very handsome girl, and what came of it? I caught the fancy of a gentleman, and he married me—whether it was a right and good marriage or not I do not know, but I have begun to think it must have been good and holding, or he would not have run away so far to escape from me. After a while he grew cool, and shook me off, shook himself free of me as Samson shook off the cords of flax, as though burnt with fire, wherewith the Philistines had bound him. He never came near me again.'

'But, mother, you say that it is he who is finding the money for buying this house and for my education as a lady.'

Mrs. Marley looked down suddenly, and her colour deepened. She did not answer directly, but after some pause, said, in a hesitating manner, 'He has not come near me. He may care for you, because he can make a lady of you, but for me he cares not, he can make nothing now of me. It is too late. If you get a husband who is a gentleman, you must be able to hold him fast. He will not run away from you if you have money and retain the purse, but, above all—not if you have education. It was not because I was poor, but because I was untaught that he left me. It has been as a worm in my brain. To school you must go, and so escape that misery which would be yours if, like me, you were no scholar.'